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Kismet poems 



by 



frank )VI» frissellc 



^ 



Being a collection of the wracs written for the 
jVIancbester Daily Union in the summer 
and winter of 1897 and the 
spring of ij 



^H 



JMancbestcr, f^^. B. 

prtfltcd by the lobn B. CUrhe Co. 

1898 



f'3-bS' 



K^. 



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16287 



COPYRIGHT, July, 1898 




TM/Q COPIES R£CtlV£0. 






18S»3. 



Co 

My fcUow-worhcrs of the dnioti, 

who toil in the midnight hours, 

and who keep the weary vigils while humanity sleeps, 

are these verses dedicated, 

trusting that my comrades will be as hindly in their criticism 

as they arc ever courteous 

in all that tends to mahe life worth living. 



Note to the Reader* 

With exceeding hesitation, the writer of the 
verses contained in this volume essays to place 
them in the hands of his friends in published 
form. They were originally written for the 
Manchester (N. H.) "Union," and in obedience 
to requests from a few admirers they are pre- 
sented in the shape here seen. The verses were 
prepared, in almost everj^ instance, in the still, 
small hours of the night, after the wide-awake 
printer had received his last supply of news 
manuscript for the morning edition of a large 
daily paper. In no sense does the author lay 
claim to any poetical talent, nor does he for one 
moment expect that his modest verses will dis- 
place any of the writings of the poets who have 
come and gone. The following verses were 
written for amusement and recreation, and not 
with the intention of clinging closely to the 
rules laid down by the critics. If these lines 
afford pleasing thoughts for those who peruse 
them, the mission of "Kismet" will perhaps not 
have been in vain. 

F. M. F. 

Manchester, N. H., June 30, 1898. 



Contents. 

I. Songs of the Heart 17 

II. Songs of the Soul 71 

III. Songs of the Home 105 

IV. Songs for the Children 113 

V. Stories in Song 137 

VI. Songs of the Seasons 153 

VII. Songs of War 183 

VIII. Songs of the Campaign 197 

IX. Miscellaneous Poems 211 

X. Lines TO Kismet 291 



Table of Contents. 



Songs of the Heart. 

Another Man 27 

Blame Her Not 61 

Blanchette 68 

Blue-Black Idyll, A 42 

Blue-Eyed Boy, The 69 

Bunch of Violets, The 46 

Calla 22 

Chestnut Curl, The 23 

Don't You Remember 45 

Down the Lane 33 

Dried Grasses 20 

Geraldine 56 

Honeysuckle Land, The 19 

Love's Bouquet 49 

Love's Changes 34 

Mabelle 43 

Maid Across the Sea, The 54 

Maiden's Prayer, The 28 

Message, The 30 

Miss Velvet 25 

My Garden 40 

:\Iy Valentine 51 

Old Letters 24 

On the Beach 58 

One I Love, The 53 

Paradise 38 

Pedler Man, The 41 

Rejected 32 

Reminder, A 35 

Rosalind 48 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Rose, The 50 

Rosie 29 

Silver Stream, The 37 

Solamanchus 63 

Song of June, A 64 

Sweet Sadie 26 

Taffy Hair 36 

Tarn o' Shanter Girl, The 66 

Tea Rose, The 57 

To a Kerchief 59 

To the Bachelor 52 

To the Unsatisfied 47 

Trinkets 65 

'Twas Always Thus 39 

'Twas Yours, Bernice 60 

Velvet Hand, The 44 

Violets 21 



Songs of the Soul. 

And More's the Pity 94 

Bells, The...., 88 

Bend Ye Low 102 

Between the Lines 82 

Charity 78 

Consolation 100 

Epitaph, An 87 

Faith 75 

Forlorn Virtue, A 92 

Hope 77 

Leaf, The 102 

Liebestraume 86 

Life's Springtime 97 

Love Him a Little 103 

Midnight 96 

Old Daguerreotype, An 84 

Old Days, The 93 

Reveries of the Past 73 



10 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Sister Casimir 98 

Smiles Count 76 

Some of the Good Things 80 

Song of To-day, A 101 

Songs 91 

Sunshine Morning, A 104 

Sweetest Day, The 99 

To the Future 81 

Troubles of Our Own 90 

Songs op the Home. 

Husking, The Ill 

Julie's Songs 108 

Katie 107 

Little Old Home, The 109 

Songs for the Children. 

Arbella 119 

Authentic Version, The 117 

Before and After 135 

Dreamland 126 

Golden-Headed Bug, The 132 

.Johnny's Noah's Ark 121 

Little Green Apple 133 

Little Johnnie 128 

Little Petey 120 

Lullaby Song, A 129 

Marguerite 116 

Rainbow Land, The 115 

Saucy Flake, The 124 

Sawdust Doll, The 118 

Signer Lum Bago 131 

Vain Caterpillar, The 134 

What the Pansy Said 125 

Whistling Boy, The 130 



11 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Stories in Song. 

Educated Blacksmith, The 149 

Glory of the West, The 148 

Loon Island's Priest 142 

Rock Rimmon, Ballad of 139 

Shipwreck, The 145 

Songs of the Seasons. 

Arbutus, The 181 

Autumn Time 165 

Beneath the Ice 166 

Brown and Gold 159 

Bugs Are Here, The 178 

Bumblebee, The 167 

Buzzing Bug, The 173 

Christmas Bells, The 156 

Dame of Ninety-Eight, The 176 

Forebodings 157 

He's Coming 163 

If This Be June 178 

January 1 171 

Jasmine, The 155 

Jovial Junkman, The 169 

July's Here 180 

June Bug Resteth, The 174 

New Year's Thoughts 162 

Robin Fiend, The 168 

Sadder Days 161 

Signs of Fall 160 

Sing, Juauito 179 

Spring Is Here 177 

Strawberries 179 

Summer's Coming 158 

Summer Day, The 174 

Sun Beats Down, The 180 

Tea in the Jug, The 172 



12 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Tepid Day, The 175 

Thanksgiving Time 170 

They Are Coming 181 

Whistling AVinds, The 164 

Songs of War, 

Buena Ventura, The 190 

Farmer on Deck, The 192 

Havana Bay 191 

Maine Disaster, The 186 

Old Glory 185 

Soldier's Sweetheart, The 194 

Subdued Patriot, The 187 

Volunteer, The 195 

What Would He Say 188 

Windy Chap, The 193 



Songs op the Campaign. 

Candidates, The 210 

He Has the Floor 205 

Hoodoo in the Air, A 206 

Metamorphosis 199 

Oh, Why Is It 201 

Seasonable Hints 203 

Timely Valentines 208 

What the Robin Said 200 

Miscellaneous Poems. 

Acrobatic Corner, The 221 

Amoskeag 217 

Awakenings 224 

Birthdays 266 

Boom the Celebration 268 

By the Mountain Side 234 

Calm Down, My Honey 280 

13 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Chaperone, The 251 

City Comforts 238 

Declined with Thanks 214 

De Coon Gal's Wink 237 

Divided by Two 267 

Easter Chick, The 231 

Elastic Fish, The 232 

Flower Girl, The 244 

Friend Who Sticks, The 279 

Friend's Advice, A 245 

Fussy Old Maid, The 223 

Gallant Capt'in 278 

Gas Meter, The 236 

Giddy Scorcher, The 230 

Granite State, The 213 

Grind of the Mills 235 

He Loved Her 243 

Land Beyond the Sky 219 

Life 285 

Lochinvar up to Date 290 

Mary Jane's Advice 258 

Mercenary 277 

Minister's Wife, The 253 

Model, The 242 

Narcissus, The 272 

New Woman, The 260 

No Parting There 215 

Only a Hair 263 

Pattering Rain, The 264 

Pine Needles 220 

Plain Dog 261 

Proof Reader, The 254 

Rabbit's Foot, The 246 

Sentimental Bill 228 

Something Wrong 271 

Soon 283 

Spark Is There, The 259 

Sun Glints 216 



14 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Sure Thing, A 257 

Sweetly Graduated, The 282 

Telephone Girl, The 252 

Then and Now 273 

There Are Others 239 

Those Babies 250 

To a Young Man 286 

To My Paperweight 274 

To My Pencil 222 

To My Pipe 270 

To Robert 275 

Trouble's Recipe 227 

Trusted, Busted 218 

Tumble Away, Red Clouds 247 

Twinkling Star, The 284 

Two Snowflakes 226 

Veteran Fireman, The 240 

Week of Salt, A 276 

What's the Use 248 

Why Do They 281 

Your Silver Wedding 255 



Lines to Kismet. 

Envious Heart, The 301 

Firstly (S. F. Claflin) 296 

Kismet to Tancred 294 

Tancred to Kismet 293 

To Kismet (Anon.) 300 

To Kismet (H. M. G. Colby) 299 



15 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



THE HONEYSUCKLE LAND. 



The Honeysuckle Land. 

From the land of the dear honej^suckle 

Came the scent of the new-mown hay, 
Eeealling the scenes of the far long-ago, 

When life was but pleasure and play. 
For the time that we passed in the meadows. 

As the tree toad was singing his lay, 
Were the days when no flavor of trouble 

Filled the hearts of our j'outh with dismay. 

From the land of the dear honej^suckle 

Comes the whisper of promises made, 
When you and I knelt in the shadow, 

In the summer where soft breezes played. 
Do you think that I cease to remember 

How often it was that we prayed 
That nothing might e'er come between us 

To give us the cause to upbraid? 

From the land of the dear honeysuckle 

Come the echoes of sweetest refrain, 
The sigh of the breeze and the tree toad's lay 

Breathe the song that will ever remain. 
And the long-ago seems not so far after all. 

If your troubles you cease to retain, 
And think of the times of the old summer days. 

When we knew not the sorrow and pain. 



19 



SONGS OF THE HEAET, 

Dried Grasses. 

On the corner of a mantel, 

With the blades a-lowly bending-, 
Are the dried and withered grasses 

With their memories unending. 
Although the dust has settled 

O'er the brown and yellow plume, 
This bunch of withered grasses 

Brings a shadow from the tomb. 

How dear the recollection 

Of the frag'rant summer-tide, 
As I. sauntered through the meadow 

With Perdita by my side. 
We talked of all the pretty things 

That lovers' tongues coiild utter, 
Her eyes were like the beaming stars. 

My heart was in a flutter. 

We pushed aside the buttercui:)s 

And revelled in the clover. 
Picked our way through daisy beds, 

And told our stories over. 
We plucked the lowly grasses 

That bent beside the stream. 
And put them on the mantel. 

So graceful did they seem. 

20 



VIOLETS, 

And now Perdita's left me. 

No more I'll see the smile 
That lighted np a dreary life 

Or did a heart beguile. 
'Twas hard to find a sweeter face 

Among the country lasses. 
Perdita's soul has flown away, 

And I — I have the grasses. 



Violets, 

The tale is told, perhaps 'tis true, 

That once an ang-el wept. 
And all the teardrops earthward flew 

While men and w^omen slept. 
And then the story plainly tells 

What fate the teardrops met, 
For in the shady woodland dells 

We found the violet. 

And ever since, when lovers tried 

To prove that they were true. 
They'd send a token, silken-tied, 

A bunch of flowers blue. 
Sweetly, and with drooping- head, 

That sparkled with the dew, 
This is what the violet said: 

"My love is all for you!" 



21 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Calla. 

Oh, Calla, you're a corker, yes — 

A lily of the dale; 
Although you've crossed the Eubicon, 

Your charms can never fail. 
The years have taught you many things 

That lend you winning* grace; 
Oh, Calla, you can fascinate, 

No matter where the place. 

Oh, Calla, in your winding train. 

You've numbered many beaux, 
The long and short, and fat and lean, 

Have told you of their Avoes, 
But, Calla, they have disappeared. 

Like mist before the sun. 
No doubt they still remember you. 

When thoughts the sweetest run. 

Oh, Calla, it is often said. 

That when the fragrant rose 
Has spread its velvet petals wide, 

Its greatest beauty shows. 
And, Calla, this is true of you. 

In senses more than one. 
That you are still the shining light. 

More glowing than the sun. 



THE CHESTNUT CURL. 

And what care we, oh, Calla, fair, 

That others saw in you 
The virtues that appeal to us 

Like morn's ref resiling* dew; 
For, Calla, it is plain to us 

They showed a judgment keen, 
In that they bowed the knee to one 

With graces of a queen. 

Oh, Calla, years may still mount on, 

And grind their weary way; 
We still will bless the moment that 

We fell beneath your sway; 
For, Calla, if you listen well, 

You'll hear our soft refrain, 
We sing" to you our fond regard 

For charms that still remain. 



The Chestnut CurL 

The chestnut curl of the summer girl 
Droops gently in the breeze. 
She sweetly sings of the joy it brings 
As she strolls by the foamy seas. 

Some daring boy will fondly toy 
With the curl of the brown-eyed maid. 
And hearts may ache, and maybe break, 
When the sad good-bj'es are said. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Old Letters. 

She promised many, many times, 

In words of warm affection, 
Slie'd marrj^ all the spooney ehax)s 

Who wrote in her direction, 
The3^ called her "Queen" and "Lilj^" too, 

And wasted quarts of ink, 
She swore she'd be as true to them 

As any one could thinlv. 

She kej)t their letters twenty years, 

In biindles nicely tied, 
They came from almost every town — 

From places far and wide. 
x\nd when an idle hour came on, 

She'd read these letters o'er, 
And smiled to think she led them on 

To sai)py stuff outpour. 

And really, now, she only cared 

(Since she had met her fate) 
To save the brown and j^ellow stamps 

Which j)aid the i)ostal freight. 
For after all she ^iledged her hand 

To one whose loving fist 
Had not inscribed a single line 

Of all this tender grist. 



24 



MISS VELVET. 

The essence of the scorching- words 

And vows of lasting- love 
Went up in smoke one cleaning- day 

To cloudless realms above. 
For opening- up the furnace door, 

She dumped the letters in, 
And not a salty tear was shed 

For those who didn't win. 



Miss Velvet* 

The lig-ht g-leams dance across the path 

And webs of spiders g-listen; 
Softlj^ sig-hs the summer wind, 

The crickets stop to listen. 
Throug-h the meadows, g'olden-kissed. 

With buttercups ag'low. 
Miss Velvet g-lides with all the grace 

A queen could ever show. 

She plucks the dainty marg'uerite, 

And breathes the sweet refrain, 
"He loves me" and "he loves me not" — 

The birds take up the strain. 
Back and forth the petals fly, 

On breezes perfume-scented, 
"He loves me" is the message dear — 

Miss Velvet is contented. 



SONGS OF THE HEAET. 



Sweet Sadie. 

Oh, well do I remember her, 

Sweet Sadie o'er the way! 
Her gentle style and winning- smile 

Were x^resent all the day. 
And now I've reached the ^vhitened age, 

When no one cares for me, 
And all that I take pleasure in — 

Is Sadie's memory. 

And how I used to worship her. 

Sweet Sadie o'er the way! 
My burning' heart would swiftly start 

At all she chose to say. 
And roses that she liked to wear, 

Thoug-h withered they may t)e, 
Are sacred treasures — fragrant, too. 

Of Sadie's memorj^ 

The sun was in her honey eyes. 

Sweet Sadie o'er the way! 
My soul's forlorn, that she has g'one, 

And I am old and grey. 
No lilies in the valley grow. 

No vines around the tree. 
That fresher in their greenness seem 

Than Sadie's memory. 



26 



ANOTHER MAN. 

Most i^leasant would the trial be, 

Sweet Sadie o'er the way! 
CoiTldst thou replace the dainty face 

That held me in its sway. 
I'll not forget that age has taught 

To hold tenaciously 
The thoug-hts of her that now are but 

]\Iy Sadie's memory. 

I 

The strain comes faintly down to me — 

Sweet Sadie o'er the way! 
The song- of love from far above — 

That voice of youthful day. 
I listen, dear, with bounding- soul. 

As thou art calling* me; 
And, waiting", I shall oft revere 

My Sadie's memory. 

Another Man. 

A lover's dream — 

Letters, a ream — 
A fine engag-ement ring. 

Murmuring's low: 

"I love you so!" 
In happiness they sing. 

The morning tide 

By the ocean side 
Tells quite another story. 

Another man 

Has just began 
To set his cap for Rosie. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Maiden's Prayer. 

Whisper, little maid, 

With sun-kissed hair. 
Do you love me as I love you? 

Speak, little maid, 

And have a care. 
Are you just as good and true? 

Flutter, the roses. 

Kissed by the bees. 
But the rose retains its red. 

Tossing', the lily, 

Swayed by the breeze. 
Yet poised is the lily's head. 

And so, little maid, 

When kissed by me. 
Will your heart be as sweet and true 

As when, gentle maid. 

Your heart was free. 
And lover ne'er came to woo? 

Dear, like the rose, 

Are you, little maid, 
Fairest are your peach-down cheeks^ 

You're like the lily. 

Growing- in the g-lade. 
You're just what the fond heart seeks. 



28 



ROSIE. 

The sky shows clear 
O'er you, little maid. 

You're sweet as the scented flower, 
INIay the days be bright, 
Your soul not afraid. 

And love fill your sunshine bower. 



Rosie. 

It is Rosie in the morn and it's Eosie in the eve, 
And it's Rosie all the time I do believe, 

For Rosie is my girl. 

She's a shining" little pearl, 
With Rosie I'll my jollity retrieve. 

As she wanders in the garden, and she plucks 

the stately bloom. 
In her tender eyes I read my early doom. 
For my Rosie has a way 
That's delightful all the day. 
She's the ra^' of sun that drives awaj^ the 
gloom. 

So I give my love to Rosie, and I clasp the 

gentle hands, 
And I'm willing to cement the golden bands. 
She's the sweetest of them all. 
And my Rosie has the call, 
And she leads me o'er the wild and burning 
sands. 

29 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Message* 

Though I travel o'er the mountains 

And 1 sail across the seas, 
I know that thou art true, my love. 

My heart is quite at ease. 
Thy hazel ej^es are flashing-, love, 

A lig-ht divinely clear. 
It flashes o'er the sea to me, 

A message sweet and dear. 

It tells me that thy memory 

Reverts to friends afar. 
And that thy soul is truthful, love. 

And pure as distant star. 
I see thy image, graceful like. 

Thy voice I think I hear; 
My heart. receives most gratefully 

Thy message sw^eet and dear. 

No matter where I roam, my love, 

My blood most warmly flows. 
Because I know that faithful lives 

A maiden like the rose. 
Miles may come 'tween you and me, 

No other friend be near, 
But still thy heart extends to me 

A message sweet and dear. 



JO 



THE MESSAGE. 

Thono-h heavens fall and tidal waves 

Go surging- o'er the land, 
I still can feel thy softened gaze 

And toneh of tender hand. 
And when my eyes refuse to close 

In midnight's hour of fear, 
I hear the words thou whisperest 

A message sweet and dear. 

I wander 'neath the tropic palms 

And through the shaded groves, 
Along- the sand that golden gleams 

Where swarthy Arab roves, 
And, bending o'er the silver pool 

To quaff the sparkling cheer, 
I hear thy soothing accents, love, 

A message sweet and dear. 

I long to speed the journey home 

And walk once more with thee 
Through meadow paths and o'er the hills, 

And bid my sorrows flee. 
'Tis there I'd kiss the marbled brow% 

Repress the stealing tear. 
And hear repeated o'er and o'er 

Thy message sweet and dear. 



31 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Rejected* 

In the gloaming", 

We were roaming", 
Friends Ave'd been for many j^ears, 

Hoi^e was fleeting, 

Love retreating, 
Eves were filled with blinding tears. 

Still the singing 

Birds were ringing 
Out their notes of Paradise, 

And the crying 

And the sighing 
Of the breeze was sweet with spice. 

She was saying". 

That in lading 
ISIy devotion at her shrine, 

I was falling 

Down in calling 
Her my treasure — always mine. 

And in parting 

I was starting 
To reflect upon the i)ast, 

But refusing" 

And excusing, 
She declared the die was cast. 



32 



DOWN THE LANE. 



Down the Lane* 

A pink most sweetly scented was the blossom 

I x)resented 
To the maiden who was waiting in the lane. 
Then she took the blossom fair, and she placed 

it in her hair, 
While she softly hummed a tender-like refrain. 

At first she couldn't see whj' she should marry 

me, 
When she knew I didn't figure in her set; 
But she took the pretty' pink, with a merry 

smile and wink, 
And she said she didn't want a lover yet. 

She wore the little flower, though it faded in 

an hour. 
And we sauntered down the crooked country 

lane. 
But before the hour was up she had filled my 

loving cup 
With the joy that I had hardly hoped to gain. 

Hand in hand we travel, as life's problems we 

unravel. 
For "Yes" is what my little maid declared. 
And the saucj^ little pink, and the merr\' smile 

and wink, 
Were the causes of my hapi^iness unspared. 

33 



SONGS OF THE HEAET. 



Lovers Changes. 

'Twas eight o'clock and more and I rapped 

upon the door. 
As I called to see a lovely little maid, 
And her sunnj^ braids of hair and her rosy 

cheeks and fair 
Were as pretty as the lilies in the glade. 

At nine I braver grew and I told her what 

I'd do 
If she'd condescend to i^lace her hand in mine, 
For I swore eternal love, by the blessed saints 

above, 
And she sweetly gave an answer most benign. 

And at ten o'clock the ringing of the bells in 

steeples winging- 
Told me plainly that the time had come to go, 
So we pledged our vows again, at this fleeting 

hour of ten, 
And stronger did affection seem to grow. 

I will ne'er forget the night, for the moon was 

shining bright, 
As I strolled toward my domicile of rest, 
And I pictured in my dream how my future 

life would seem, 
With the beaming little maid I had caressed. 



34 



A REMINDER. 

That was manj^ years ag'o, and my love has 

ceased to flow, 
For the fairy with the sunny braids of hair, 
She is married to another, and the other is my 

brother — 
She has little ones with rosy cheeks and fair. 



A Reminder. 

I can see reflected in your face divinely fair 
The virtues and the g'races that we think the 

ang-els bear. 
For your eyes of melting- brownness tell a 

story of their own. 
And if your charms were fewer I would wor- 
ship them alone. 
For your flutt'}' hair is flying like the spider's 

silken strands. 
And I long- to press the ringlets that compose 

the golden bands. 
And your brow, as smooth as marble, is as free 

from worldly care 
As the nightingale cavorting in the balmy 

country air. 
Should I meet you in the gloaming, as the 

chirping cricket sings, 
'Twould remind me of the summer and the joy- 

ousness it brings. 



35 



SONGS OF THE HEAET. 



Taffy Hair. 

Hear the merry birds a-singing- 

In a way that's superfine, 
And the butterfly is cling-ing 

To the morning-glory vine. 
For the silken skirts a-swishing 

Send their music through the air, 
And my heart is fondly wishing 

For the girl with taffy hair. 

She's a dream, a little trinket, 

And a jewel quite alone, 
And my fortune I would sink it. 

Would she be my very own. 
Like the fragrance of the roses 

That she dearly loves to wear. 
She's the pink of all the posies, 

Is my girl with taffy hair. 

She's as dainty as a feather. 

With her blushes like the dawn. 
When the sun and clouds together 

Paint the roses of the morn. 
See! She lifts her taper fingers 

And she calls me over there — 
Now I know that Cupid lingers 

Where he finds the taffy hair. 



30 



THE SILVER STREAM. 



The Silver Stream, 

Through the woodland, gliding on, 

'Tween mossy banks, and green, 
Flows the winding stream along, 

'Xeath trees of stately mien. 
Everj' ripple tells the tale 

Of pools and shady places, 
As circling down the mountain side, 

To sea the streamlet races. 

In many ways the silver stream, 

If guided by a mind, 
Could tell us much of love and hate — 

The spool of life unwind. 
Yet the lily, brightly red, 

And drooping in the breeze. 
Is voucher that the secrets held, 

Xo mortal e'er can seize. 

Maids and men in summer days 

Have strolled along the stream, 
Pledging softly whispered vows. 

Which now are but a dream. 
'Twould never do to give away 

The tricks that Cupid played. 
The silver brook will never tell 

Of lovers' debts unpaid. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Paradise^ 

Flowers twining, hedges green, 

Fragrant is the breeze; 
Konnding paths and yelvet sheen, 

Blossoms on the trees. 
See the song birds sail along. 

Hear their trilling notes; 
Tree toads join the merrj^ song, 

Soft the music floats. 

That's Paradise. 

Place within the g'arden fair 

The maid with dimpled cheeks, 
Give her smiles and golden hair, 

And loveliness that speaks. 
Let her heart with goodness flow. 

Her mind should brilliant be — 
Garden, girl, and all will show 

What we would like to see. 
That's Paradise. 

Give us, then, unending life, 

With joyousness and bliss; 
Banish even thotights of strife 

With lover's honeyed kiss. 
Give us blossoms all the years. 

Songs of birds eternal; 
Little need there'll be for tears, 

In regions so supernal. 

That's Paradise. 
38 



'TWAS ALWAYS THUS. 



'Twas Always Thus* 

Oil, wh}^ do lovers pledg-e their words 
That they will stick tog-ether, 

Through thick and thin and blinding storm 

• And all such troublous weather? 

Exchang'ing vows with many sig'hs, 
They swear they'll never part, 

And glances shot from eye to eye 
Betray the fluttering heart. 

She firmly stamps her little fooi^ 

Declares she'll never change. 
That she could ever love again 

Would be most passing strange. 
She never knew another man, 

Said she with beaming smile, 
Who ever filled the bill so well. 

Or had such princely stj'le. 

The lover rolled his eyes to heaven, 

And praised her face and hair, 
He said her eyes were like the stars — 

Her lips beyond comi^are. 
He swore no woman ever lived 

Who could touch her for a minute^ 
No need to fight the Trojan war, 

For Helen wasn't in it. 



39 



SONGS OF THE HEABT. 

How frail, indeed, are human vows. 

No matter how emphatic, 
These lovers fought like cats and dogs 

In a manner most erratic. 
She said he was a cruel thing, 

He swore she wasn't true, 
They cut the twine that bound them 

Both — to other partners flew. 



My Garden* 

In my garden are roses so velvety soft. 

That they drop with the fluttering breeze, 
So fragrantly sweet that the senses are fraught 

With the odor of tropical seas. 
The hollyhock bends with its powdery blooms, 

And yellow the marigold's head, 
The bumblebee kisses the dear marguerite, 

And dew to the jDansy is fed. 

But naught in my garden more beautiful seems 

Than the girl with the silken hair. 
Who lingers along by the violet bank, 

And i^raises the flowers there. 
Sweeter than roses and hollyhock blooms. 

And pansies and marguerites, too. 
Is the coy little maiden who gathers the buds, 

Whose heart is so tenderly true. 



40 



THE PEDLER MAN. 



The Pedler Man. 

Elsie smiles at the garden g-ate 

(Her love was the pedler man). 
The little maid didn't have long to wait 

(Her love was the pedler man). 

Elsie watches for the little red cart 

(Her love was the pedler man). 
The tin i)ans beat to her throbbing heart 

(Her love was the pedler man). 

Elsie looks out for the brooms and mops 

(Her hubby's the pedler man). 
She watches the horse when the little cart stops 

(Her hubby's the pedler man). 

And little tin pedlers are playing about 

(She married the pedler man). 
At the little red cart they set up a shout 

(Their dad is the pedler man). 

And the roses bloom by the garden gate 
(They thrive for the pedler man), 

And the little maid blesses the kindh' fate 
(That gave her the pedler man). 



41 



SONGS OF THE HEART, 



A Blue-Black IdylL 

Give me thy hand — thy velvet hand, 
Oh, maid of the blue-blaek hair. 

We'll travel along- through Love-lit land 
And pick of the blossoms there. 

And sorrow and care we'll throw away. 
Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, 

And welcome the morn of the Sunshine day, 
While tasting- the mountain air. 

List to the song- of the swelling' frog. 
Oh, maid of the blue-black hair. 

He's singing away in the ooz^^ bog, 
Of trouble he hasn't a care. 

And the tree toad throbs in the oaken grove, 
Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, 

Perhaps he is telling a story wove 
Of things that the woods declare. 

The cricket chirps in the dusky eve. 
Oh, maid of the blue-black hair. 

He biddest me trust and truly believe 
That thou art beyond comptare. 

So we'll travel along in the Love-lit land. 
Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, 

I'll follow the lead of the velvet hand 
To the town of Anywhere. 

42 



MABELLE. 



Mabelle. 

The idealistic maid is she, 
Whose mind is iinai¥ected — 

Who blesses her affinity 

With wishes well selected. 

She knows his faults and sweetly tries 

To abolish melancholy. 
She scorns all other worldlj' ties 

And lifts him from his folly. 

From crown of head to finger tips 

Divine is her condition. 
And i)early words from rosj^ lips 

Sx^eak gentle admonition. 

For Mabelle is a lady bred. 

No queen has e'er excelled her. 

In dainty poise of lovely head, 
No princess can approach her. 

No breath can harm this jewel rare — 

This gem of purest water. 
Whose truth is quite beyond compare, 

Whose faith will never falter. 

Farewell to gloom, and hail! Mabelle! 

Your love has won the day. 
We'll walk beneath the magic spell, 

United we will stay. 

43 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Velvet Hand* 

Still do we think of the sunny days, 

The garden of youth was bright, 
When lover of old sang* sweetest laj^s 

In the dusk of the summer night. 
The petal of rose kissed climbing vine, 

Bj^ fragrant zephyrs fanned. 
But sweetest of all I claim as mine 

Was the touch of the velvet hand. 

Oh. dearest of all the maidens fair, 
The girl of mj^ boyhood time. 

No lily with thee could e'er compare- 
No truer in any clime. 

Still do I dream of tender maid, 
The dearest of angel band, 

And think of the time the pulse obeyed 
The touch of the velvet hand. 

Nearer the tomb, and cold and gray, 

Is life at the set of sun. 
Weaker and weaker the slanting ray, 

As the deeds of life are done. 
Tho' curled is the leaf of the ivy vine. 

And swift is the shifting sand, 
I feel that I still can claim as mine. 

The touch of the velvet hand. 



44 



DOX T YOU REMEMBER' 



Don^t You Remember* 

Don't 3-0U remember the smile of the girl 

You met in the summer of old. 
When out of the g-ay and maddening- whirl 

You gathered her into the fold? 
Don't you remember? 

Don't you remember the flower she gave, 

Fresh from the g'arden plot, 
And how you became her bending slave 

The moment your heart was caught? 
Don't you remember? 

Don't you remember the strolls of night, 

And the moon in shining splendor, 
And the little soft nothings that took their 
flight 
From the lips of lovers tender? 
Don't you remember? 

And don't j'ou remember when winter came, 
Her carriage was haughty, indeed? 

For nothing to her was the summer-time flame, 
And the flowers have gone to seed. 
Don't vou remembei? 



45 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Bunch of Violets* 

Oh, give ine back the sweetened days, 

The time of brimming measure, 
When no^v but faintest shadow plays 

Of mem'ry give the x^leasnre. 
The taste of youth the tongue receives, 

The soul unrest ful gets 
At sight of ■withered buds and leaves 

Of the bunch of violets. 

What story tell these faded flowers? 

Who g'ave them, and to whom? 
Did once they brighten saddened hours, 

And lift a heart from gloom? 
Quite still they lie. so crisp and dry, 

Their fragrance love begets, 
Perhaps that's why we softly sigh 

O'er the bunch of violets. 

Oh, years and years have come and gone, 

And suns have fast declined; 
And manj" souls await the ]\Iorn 

To lasting glory find. 
But peaceful-like there still remains 

The thought that never sets — 
The loving kiss one bud retains 

In the bunch of violets. 



46 



TO THE U^^SATISFIED. 



To The Unsatisfied. 

Why weepest thou, O maiden? 

Why this overwhelming- gloom? 
Have thy roses dropped their j)etals, 

Or thy lilies failed to bloom? 
Unsig'hth' seem thy sorrows, 

When the sun is shining- bright, 
In a world where other roses 

May be found to thj^ delight. 

Thou canst never count the pebbles 

On the shore beside the sea, 
Xor raindrops that are falling 

From the clouds that darkened be. 
Should the roses shed their petals. 

And thou understandest not. 
Just try to count the pebbles. 

Or the falling- water drop. 

So sorrow not, O maiden, 

If the lily fails to grow; 
'Tis not for thee to understand 

What others may not know. 
Just take the good that comes along, 

Xo matter where the spot; 
Thou canst not count the pebbles, dear, 

Nor the falling- water drop. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Rosalind ♦ 

Oh, Eosalind, fair Rosalind, 

Please turn thy face to me. 
Wherefore dost thou repudiate 

The love we send to thee? 
Art thou a gilded butterfly. 

That touches every flower 
And in an instant soars away 

For another fragrant bower? 

Oh, Rosalind, fair Rosalind, 

Our hearts revert to thee; 
We fain would know if constancy 

With thee would disagree. 
'Tis hard to think the sweetest face 

We ever chanced to kiss 
Would hide beneath its rosy masque 

The thoughts that seem amiss. 

Oh, Rosalind, fair Rosalind, 

We'll keep thee out of mind. 
The poisoned lih% red and gold. 

In darkest swamps we find. 
As butterflies are seldom seen 

Except in sunny weather. 
We'll seek the friend who faithful stands 

In sun and storm tog-ether. 



48 



LOVE S BOUQUET. 



Love's Bouquet. 

Like a lily art thou! 
Because thou art fragrant and g-listening white, 

And proud in thy queenly grace, 
Bending whenever the zephyr's kiss 

Fondles thy pollened face. 

Like a rose art thou! 
Because thou art sweeter than honey distilled 

In the garden of Goldenland, 
And blushing whenever the humming bird flips 

Thy petals far over the sand. 

Like a pink art thou! 
Because thou resemblest the isles of spice, 

With cinnamon-scented breeze. 
Thj' beauties are varied and lasting, too, 

And yearnings of hearts appease. 

Like a pansy art thou! 
Because thou makest the thoughts to come 

Of honor and virtues rare. 
Because the face of each flow'ret shows 

The contentment all should bear. 

Like a violet art thou! 
Because thou dost shine in morning dew — 

The dew that refreshes mind, 
Because thou art tender, pure, and true, 

And at every moment kind. 

3 

49 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



The Rose* 

You are queen, dear rose, 
And every one knows 
That nothing- more dainty 
In my garden grows. 
Velvet petals bending-. 
Heaven's j)erfume sending-, 
Note the bloom 
Dispels the gloom. 
Sun-kissed colors blending-. 

You are queen, dear rose. 
You'd never suppose 
That anything- sweeter 
In my garden grows. 
But a fairy most alluring, 
And with manners quite assuring- 
Is the maid, 
I am afraid. 
Who has graces more enduring. 

You were queen, dear rose. 
But Cux)id shows 
You cannot rule 
As the love-light glows. 
"The maiden's eyes a-glancing 
JIas set my heart a-dancing — 
She gave to me 
The rose you see. 
So she's the more entrancing. 
50 



MY VALENTINE. 



My Valentine* 

Wilt thoii be my loving- one, 

The frnit of my desire? 
Wilt thou be the warming sun 

When hearts need passion's fire? 
Wilt thou walk the path with me, 

And place thy hand in mine? 
Wilt thou, dear, agree to be 

My sweet-eyed valentine? 

Dost thou mean thy g-entle smile 

For me, and me alone? 
Is thy mind quite free from guile, 

And ready to condone? 
Can I trust that sunny face 

Which seemeth to refine? 
Wilt thou, oh, thou queen of grace, 

Be mine — my valentine? 

Just as true as roses breathe 

Their fragrance in the night, 
I'll wind affection's tender wreath 

Around thy tresses bright. 
And all the sw^eets that come to me 

Are thine, as well as mine, 
I only ask that thou wilt be 

JSIy own — my valentine. 



51 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



To the Bachelor* 

One may scent the fragrance of the roses o'er 
the wall, 

And then bej'ond his reach may see the velvet 
petals fall. 

The perfnme counts but naught to him who 
looks with wistful eyes. 

As long- as roses ne'er can be the gazer's law- 
ful prize. 

And thus it is the bachelor goes j)lodding 

through the years, 
Resisting charms of womankind and all that 

love endears. 
An ideal once he had in mind, and chased it all 

his life. 
But ideals ne'er were known to make a model 

of a wife. 

And as his hair more whitened grows, he's 

peering o'er the wall, 
To scent the fragrance from the rose, and watch 

the petals fall. 
The smoke is curling from his pipe — his hopes 

are ashes, too; 
His wasted life well teaches him that ideals 

can't be true. 



52 



THE OXE I LOVE. 



The One I Love* 

She has her faults — the one I love — 

But I'll forget them all; 
She has her traits of gentleness, 

"Which answer memory's call. 
The thought of her — the one I love — 

Like rippling of the sun 
Cheers up the way of daily toil, 

And helps in battles won. 

She has a smile — the one I love — 

That thrills one through and through, 
Expressing much of tenderness, 

Whene'er she thinks of you. 
And then she knows — the one I love— ^ 

If clouded in the mind, 
That giving smiles as sweet as hers 

Makes one to troubles blind. 

Her eyes are bright — the one I love — 

They float in limpid dew; 
Her glances pierce my verj' soul, 

To find if I am true. 
If tears she shed — the one I love — 

I grant her least request. 
Somehow, those pearlj^ drops that fall 

Forgive the faults confessed. 



53 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And all in all — the one I love 

Appears the best to me, 
And charms that others seem to have 

With her do not ag-ree. 
And so I love the one I love 

Far more than she supposes, 
And np and down the road of life 

I'll strew her path with roses. 



The Maid Across the Sea* 

I am thinking of the roses 

And the fragrance that they throw; 
I am thinking' of the posies 

And the g'arden where they g'row. 
I am thinking' of the maiden 

Who has pledged herself to me. 
And I think of breezes laden. 

Where she is — across the sea. 

I am thinking' of the letter 

That is coming with the tide; 
I am thinking 'twould be better 

W>re she sitting by my side. 
I am thinking of the smiling 

And the dimples meant for me — 
Perhaps they are beguiling 

Some one else across the sea. 



54 



THE MAID ACROSS THE SEA. 

I am thinking- of the beating- 

Of the surf upon the sands; 
I am thinking* of the greeting* 

From the maid in other lands. 
I am thinking- of the pleasure 

That there is in store for me, 
When I'll g-et a heaping- measure 

From my love across the sea. 

I am thinking- of the blueness 

Of the balmy southern skies; 
I am thinking- of the trueness 

Of the maiden's g-leaming- eyes. 
I am thinking- of the shining- 

Of the tresses fair to see; 
And I cannot help the j)ining- 

For the maid across the sea. 

I am thinking-, I am waiting-, 

And the days will not be long-; 
I am thinking- of the mating- 

And the thrill of happy song-. 
For no more M^e'll know the sighing-. 

And the aching- heart is free, 
When I know my love is flying 

From her home across the sea. 



SONGS OF THE HEABT. 

Geraldine* 

There'll come a time, 

Geraldine, 
When you'll be queen no long'er. 

Some other dame 

With another name 
Will wield a mag-net stronger, 

Geraldine ! 

There'll come a time, 

Geraldine, 
When you're not so entrancing, 

You'll wonder why 

You didn't die 
Before you ceased romancing, 

Geraldine I 

There'll come a time, 

Geraldine, 
When 3'ou can't spin a thread. 

In sorrow, then, 

You'll wish that men 
Would let themselves be led, 

Geraldine! 

There'll come a time, 
Geraldine, 
When roses will be ashes, 

When flaunted glove 
At honest love 
Means tears upon your lashes, 
Geraldine! 
56 



THE TEA EOSE. 



The Tea Rose. 

A vision fair to gaze ux^on 
Was the girl in lilac shade — 

A combination rarely sweet. 
Was the tea rose and the maid. 

The maiden danced the hours away, 
And ting-a-ling went the band; 

The twinkling" gleams of colored lights 
Made the scene a fairy land. 

Beneath the flush of maiden's face 

The tea rose nodded, too. 
As if in time with the minuet 

Tripped by the merry crew. 

A gallant youth who knew no fear, 
And stirred by Cux^id's dart, 

With eager hand the tea rose plucked. 
And stole the maiden's heart. 

And time rolled on its weary path. 
The tea rose drooped away — 

Likewise the dancing maid forg'ot 
The love of the other day. 

Across the sea to distant clime, 
The fearless youth did wander, 

And married a girl who never saw 
A tea rose in its sjDlendor. 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

The maid who danced the hours away 
Beneath the g'leaming" lights, 

Has cut her hair and trots about 
Debating- woman's rights. 

Withered, dry, and lost to sight, 
In a ponderous, yellow book, 

The tea rose wishes back the joj's 
Of which it once partook. 



On the Beach* 

The summer girl has left the whirl 
Of city far behind her, 

She sweetly smiles 

At all the g-uiles 
With which they trj^ to blind her. 

This summer girl, with twisty curl. 
And damask cheeks of rose, 

Walks uj) and down 

In silken gown 
To captivate the beaux. 

The summer girl, with teeth of j)earl, 
And beauty over nice. 

Would have you think 

That she's the link 
That binds to Paradise. 



TO A KERCHIEF. 

Oh, summer girl, your sails you furl 
When beach is far behind you. 

Your presence bright 

Has g'one from sig'ht^ — 
We know not where to find 3-ou. 

My summer girl to whom I hurl 
The meed of honest praise, 

Is not the girl 

Who seeks the whirl 
Of fashion's giddy maze. 

My summer girl has chestnut curl 
And wears a x^inafore, 

And on the farm 

Her rounded arm 
Makes bread for twenty-four. 



To a Kerchief* 

A filmy, lacy little thing — 
No spider's web is lig'hter; 

Spotless, clinging, there it lies, 
No driven snow is whiter. 

Just the faintest trace of rose 
Like incense fills the air. 

Intoxicating, sweet perfume — 
Reminder of the fair. 



59 



SO?sGS OF THE HEART. 

The nionogramic tracery 

Betrays a gentle name; 
In truth she must have been 

An aristocratic dame. 

Dainty threads perhaps can tell 
Whose face the kerchief fanned. 

Some modern knig-ht would give his all 
To kiss the owner's hand. 

A filmj^ lacy little thing — 

Ko spider's web is lig'hter; 
Spotless, clinging, there it lies. 

No driven snow is whiter. 



'Twas Yours, Bernice* 

'Twas yours, Bernice — 

Don't you recall 

The sun-bright day. 
As in shady woodland grove 

We chose to stay? 
And when I whispered burnings words 
To music of the singing birds, 

You gave me this — 
Your glove, 
Bernice! 



60 



BLAME HER XOT. 

Pray tell, Bernice — 

What did j'ou mean 

By such a gift? 
Was this the sign that j'ou and I 

Apart should drift? 
Eeg-retful, then, the days we passed 
In woodland grove. The die was cast 

When I took this— 
Your glove, 
Bernice! 

You sigh, Bernice — 

And well you may 

Uefuse to smile. 
Perhaps it's just a way you have — 

A woman's wile. 
But where the ivy doth entwine. 
You broke your heart, as w^ell as mine. 

And gave me this — 
Your glove, 
Bernice! 

Blame Her Not* 

'Tis vain with hearts in love contending, 

No reason soars above. 
Her passion she is not defending-, 

She only knows her love. 
She offered no extenuation. 

Her folly here she frankly owns; 
She could not help her adoration, 

She worshiped him and him alone. 

61 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

Other eyes perhaps were gleaming, 

But none her heart could stir, 
Other li^Ds more sweetly seeming. 

But no other lips for her. 
His voice appealed to her alone, 

His honej'ed accents thrilled; 
She lived upon its lightest tone — 

Her i^aradise fidiilled. 

So blame her not because she dared 

To banish loneliness. 
Blame her not because she cared 

To "welcome happiness. 
Blame her not because she sought 

For love's conii)anionship. 
Blame her not if once she thought 

The cup would never slip. 

Perhaps a broken heart was mended 

When sorrow flew av\^ay. 
Perhaps a dismal night had ended 

When love began the day. 
PerhaiDS you did not know the i^ain 

INIore bitter-like than gall — 
And if you did you might refrain 

From blaminq- her at all. 



62 



SOLAMANCHUS. 



Solamanchus, 

Every morning- bright and early, 

In the slanting- ra^'s of sun, 
By my shop there feebh^ wended 

One whose years were nearly spun — 
Solamanchus, with his spirit 

Faintly trembling- in its shell. 
Calmly waiting- for the tolling- 

Of the peace-bestowing- bell. 

Solamanchus, gray and grizzled. 

Paid no heed to passing- man. 
For the years he represented 

Seemed to bar him from the clan. 
No one knew his heart was beating 

For the face of long ago; 
He had lost the love he hoped for 

In the passing- of the show. 

Oh, Solamanchus, weary, 

No one g-rudges you the peace 
That will greet you in the moments 

When the beating heart will cease. 
Withered flowers seem the saddest. 

For they bring to heavy mind 
Just a little of the loving 

That old age can seldom find. 



03 



SO]N"GS OF THE HEART. 



A Song: of June* 

Oh, list to the lark in the lilv-sweet morn, 

And the chirp of the chickadee bird, 
And the twit of the jay in the jigg'ly tree, 

As they chant to the browsing* herd. 
Oh, blue are the hills in the hazy day, 

We find in the month of June, 
And sweet the scent of wayside rose — 

Incomparable Nature's boon. 

And, what does the whispering maiden say, 

To the lad with the flaxen hair, 
As he bends at the side of the country lane 

And plucks at the roses fair? 
Ah, none but the quiet zephyr knows 

What the heart of the maiden feels. 
And the breeze won't tell of the compact made, 

That the kiss of the lover seals. 

The song- of the lark in the azure height. 

And the chirp of the chickadee. 
Unite with the twit of the blue jay bird. 

As the man and the maid agree. 
And June is the month of the winding year 

When Cupid is found at his best. 
And little he recked of mischief done. 

When the man to the maid confessed. 



64 



TRINKETS. 



Trinkets. 

'Mid the dust and gTimy cobwebs, 

In a little leather case, 
With its brassy, hairy trimmings, 

And its rusty key in place. 
If my memory serves me rightly. 

It's the box I used to see 
When I sang the songs of childhood 

On the banks of the Manatee. 

As one gently lifts the cover, 

Emotion fills the mind, 
As we view the withered petals 

And the faded letters find. 
For they tell the sweetest story 

Of the lovers' fancy free, 
When the burning vows were plighted 

On the banks of the Manatee. 

Who knows Avhat words were spoken 

Where the orange blossoms grow, 
When our mother was a lassie 

In the days of long ago. 
For the bunch of withered flowers 

And the letters that jou see 
May have brought two hearts together 

On the banks of the Manatee. 



65 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 

And the glamour of the evening, 

In the fragrant southern clime, 
Still softens all the senses, 

As in days of youthful time. 
While she closes down the cover 

And slowly turns the key, 
No doubt her mind is far away 

On the banks of the Manatee. 



The Tarn o^ Shanter GirL 

You're dashing and you're artless, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
Your ways are rather heartless. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
And everywhere we see you. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
'Tis pleasant to be near you. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 

Of course we'll have to stand it. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
If you'll wear it like a bandit, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
Slap it on in any way. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
Stick a pin, and let it stay, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 



66 



THE TAM O SHANTER GIRL. 

And if your hair is streaming-, 

Oh, Tarn o' Shanter girl! 
And in the sun is gleaming', 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
No fairy's more entrancing, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
You set our hearts a-dancing, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 

With a bow or two together, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
And a saucy, little feather, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
You ride along the highway, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
The beauty of the by-way. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 

Your dimpled cheeks are rosy, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
You're a charming little posy, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
You've all our fond protection, 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 
And much of our affection. 

Oh, Tam o' Shanter sirl! 



67 



SONGS OF THE HEART. 



Blanchette* 

Petite and dainty, 

Little maid, 
May you never, 

Never fade. 

Blanchette, divine! 

A posy, you — 
As sparkling- as 

The morning" dew. 

With merry eyes 
And golden hair, 

Flitting' here and 
Flying there. 

Blanchette, my dear, 

A little kiss 
From rosy lips 

You'll never miss. 

No? Blanchette! 

You'll be obeyed. 
Although you're but 

A lady's maid. 



THE BLUE-EYED BOY. 



The Blue-Eyed Boy. 

The blue-eyed boy 

Was only nine, 
And Katie only eight. 
Said blue-ej^ed boy, 

"Will you be mine?" 
To Katie, only eight. 

"Yes, I'll be yours," 

Sweet Katie said; 

"A blue-eyed boy 

I'd like to wed." 

The blue-eyed boy 

Of ten and eight 
Loved Katie, sweet sixteen. 
Said blue-eyed boy, 

"I love you, Kate," 
And she but sweet sixteen. 

She hesitated. 

Then opined, 

"You're blue eyed, but — 

I'm color blind!" 



69 



SONGS OF THE HEAKT. 

The blue-eyed boy 

A journey made — 

Katie clung- to mother. 

The blue-eyed boy, 

A lively blade, 

Was married to another. 
This goes to show 
'Tis hard to find 
A partner when 
One's color blind. 



70 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



REVERIES OF THE PAST. 



Reveries of the Past* 

Oh, sing" of t"he fragrant days, 
Of the golden-tinted clime, 
When youthful hours 
In Nature's bowers 
Made earthly life sublime. 

For those were the days, the joyous days, 
The time of the dew-di^^ped rose, 

When little we knew of the bitter fraj^s 
And ang'uish of human woes. 

Then were the blithesome birds 
Sweet in their soft refrain, 
The murmuring- breeze 
Through blossomed trees. 
Echoed the tender strain. 

Then was the sun at its dizzy heig-ht, 
And dulled the hidden sorrow; 

The pansy smiled at the lily bright, 
And no one cared for the morrow. 

And cool was the silver pool, 
Kissed by the sunlig-ht gleam. 

And timorous shade 

Of darkened glade 
Fondled the golden beam. 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

'Twas then that we lived as the angels do, 
Who kneel by the radiant throne — 

Singing- the songs of lovers true, 
And calling the world our own. 

Beautiful are the storm clouds 
Racing across the sky. 

O'er mountains steep 

And valleys deep 
The winds went whirling by. 

Well we remember the passionate joy 
And surge of the welling* heart, 

When taking the kiss from the maiden coy- 
We promised we ne'er would part. 

List! From o'er the moorland, 
We hear the convent bell; 

The day is done. 

And dying sun 
Goes out with distant knell. 

Melting away, the dreams take flight, 
The flowers by the wayside fall. 

And youthful days and prospects bright 
Have flown beyond recall. 



FAITH. 



Faith* 

What subtle force is that which moves 

The soal to mig-hty deeds — 
That brings to surface all the good, 

And strengthens all the creeds? 
First it seems we've naught to do 

But fold our hands and wait, 
And then the shadows fade away — 

We see beyond the Gate. 

By faith alone we find the j)ath 

That leads to shadowland. 
And things appear in clearer light 

Now that we understand. 
'Tis Faith that melts the winding mist 

That clouds the human brain. 
And puts us back on firmer ground 

Beyond the touch of pain. 

And when you feel that you have lost 

A tried and loving friend, 
In whom you placed your sacred trust 

Till life was at an end — 
How sweet the thought that gently sings 

Of friendship reunited, 
That somewhere in the far beyond 

Your sorrows will be righted! 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

'Tis then that Faith, on mercy bent, 

Comes softly to your aid. 
And lifts your soul to higher realms 

Beyond this gloomy shade; 
And were it not that you possessed 

This angel's guiding hand, 
There'd be no hope of better life 

And peace would never stand. 

And so it is, in life and death, 

In love and sore aflfliction. 
That Faith steps in and intercedes 

With gracious benediction. 
Worlds may come and worlds may go, 

In countless alternation. 
But Faith remains to cheer us on 

To ultimate salvation. 



Smiles Count. 

Did you ever stop to think, my friend, 

Of the good that you might do, 
By smiling at the bitter deeds 

That others do to you? 
One by one these smiles you'll find 

In the book the angels keep, 
And in your life's declining hours, 

A sweet reward you'll rea]3. 



HOPE. 



Hope* 

And Hope! The thought that lingers last 

To soothe the dee^Dest sorrow, 
And gives delight in that we would 

See sunshine on the morrow — 
How sw^eet the comfort you extend 

When burdens are oppressing! 
How restful to the Aveary mind 

When Hope confers her blessing! 

As shadows cross your winding path 

And fortune seems forgetful, 
Hope, in never-ending kindliness, 

Makes life seem less regretful. 
And then it is to waking mind 

The lesson comes quite plainly, 
That all the good things we receive 

Are gained through troubles, mainly. 

No patriot yet has fought the tight 

That won emancipation. 
Unless his strength obtained support 

Through Hope's affiliation, 
And countless people live to-day 

In bonds that none can sever. 
And all because in early years 

Sweet Hope was at the lever. 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

And what, indeed, would lovers do 

If Hope were not their friend? 
All pledges, vows, and kindred words, 

Wonld find a sp)eedy end. 
Hearts that throb in fond attune 

Would beat in keen dismay, 
And bleed, perhaps, in sore distress 

If Hope declined to stay. 

In all we think and all we do, 

No matter what the action. 
We needs must count on better things 

For f>resent satisfaction. 
Skies are clear and dawn is here, 

Burdens seem the lighter. 
Laughing" ej'es supplant the tears. 

The world, through Hope, is brighter. 



Charity. 

Blessed is he who gives away 

A portion of his goods, 
Eelieving thus the weary chap 

Who's stumbling through the woods. 
According- to the saying true, 

'Tis better than receiving. 
And living deeds have proved it well 

That this is worth believing. 



78 



CHAKTTY, 

Heroes in a battle's storm 

Most daring" chances take; 
The roll is called, and then 'tis found 

They died for country's sake. 
Glory's laurels they deserve, 

But few are better fitted 
To wear the crown than those who stoop 

To help the one unpitied. 

For all around us, day by day, 

Is sorrow, grief, and pain — 
Thing's iDersist in going wrong 

And won't come right again. 
Not alwaj's do the scalding tears 

Describe the tortured heart, 
And that's the time that you and I 

Should do our humble part. 

A cheery word at just the time 

That words would stop the tears, 
More good will do than all the books 

You've read in twenty j^ears. 
The clasp of hand and breezy smile 

Might straighten out the line, 
iVnd just the smallest piece of gold 

Might cause the sun to shine. 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

You and I should not forget 

'Tis many times the ease 
That kindly acts wipe oiit the pain 

And are never out of place. 
And often, too, a silent deed, 

That helps along- your neig-hbor, 
Assists you in your daily work, 

And makes it lighter labor. 



Some of the Good Things* 

It's a solace that you never know 

^Vliat's coming' on the morrow; 
It's a solace that the stormy clouds 

Show silver after sorrow. 
It's a solace when you have a friend 

Who pats you on the back; 
It's a solace if you keep your head 

When gossips loudly clack. 

It's a solace that some happiness 

Is granted now and then; 
It's a solace that the world contains 

More maidens than the men. 
It's a solace that the narrow path 

Will lead away from strife; 
It's a solace that in living well 

We'll find a better life. 



80 



TO THE FUTUEE. 



To the Future ♦ 

Oblivion, happiness, or rest — 

What does the parting' mean? 
They say 'tis for the very best 

That death should come between. 
Hard it- seems, when we've attained 

The joys that life can give, 
That we should lose the vantage gained 

When we have ceased to live. 

The tender stalk grows on apace, 

And knows its proper season; 
The little leaf fills in its place, 

And queries not the reason. 
Behold the blossom! Fragrant! Sweet! 

Its petals tipped with dew — 
In modesty — refined, discreet. — 

Its beauties ever new. 

Yet the scholar most profound 

Knows not the source of power 
That in the plant made life abound 

And blessed the scented flower. 
There's the rose, with velvet glow, 

It spreads before the eye, 
And something caused the plant to grow, 

A fact you can't deny. 

SI 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

And if there is a Mighty Hand 

That cares for little things, 
A way for you no doubt is planned 

That sure protection brings. 
So let your grievance slide away, 

Don't fill your head with bubbles, 
The world is turning every day. 

Regardless of your troubles. 



Between the Lines* 

Sometimes the jest is written, 

And the funny side you see, 
Though the story's not exalting 

You betray the wildest glee. 
And when you stop to ponder 

Over all the outward signs. 
You wonder if you really read 

The thoughts between the lines. 

There's the letter from the mother 

That is written from the heart. 
And the teardrops on the pages 

Tell the story from the start; 
And her gentle admonition 

Is the kind that oft refines, 
If you'll only give attention 

To the thousfhts between the lines. 



BETWEEN THE LINES. 

'Tis not always on the surface 

That you find the richest ore; 
You must dig- beyond the strata 

If 3'ou want the g'olden store. 
Purple grapes in ripened clusters 

Can be reached upon the vines — 
If you'll profit by the wisdom 

That you read between the lines. 

See the roses and the lilies 

And the dear forget-me-not; 
You can have them if j'ou seek them 

In the fragrant garden spot. 
And the trailing orange blossom 

For the happy man entwines, 
If he'll only heed the precepts 

That he finds between the lines. 

On a placid lake we're sailing, 

O'er a smooth and glassy floor, 
And the sun is surely crowded 

By the shadows from the shore. 
And we're constantly reminded 

By the whisper of the pines, 
That our troubles are the mildest 

When w^e read between the lines. 



S3 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



An Old Dagfuerreotype* 

One day I found a faded glass 

Enclosed in g-ilded frame, 
And showing faintly in the light— 

A face without a name. 
For many years the velvet case 

Beneath the dust reposed, 
And no one knew the maid of old 

Whose book of life was closed. 

No ringlets did the lady wear, 

Her hair was smoothly laid; 
Around her neck were golden beads 

That glistened in the shade. 
No mouth was e'er more sweetl}^ formed, 

Her dimj)led cheeks were round, 
And never could such brimming eyes 

In modern days be found. 

The pictiire seemed to take me back 

To days of poppy vines, 
When grandma led the minuet 

In sweeping crinolines. 
And, dreaming, I could plainlj' see 

The maids just like the face 
I found upon the faded glass 

Within the velvet case. 



AX OLD DAGUEEEEOTYrE. 

Who knows but that the owner of 

This face of gentle mien 
Once graced a hamlet on the hill — 

A rose that blushed unseen? 
And then, perhaps, she mig'ht have been 

A leader in the set 
That reigned in gilded palaces 

By rules of etiquette. 

Perhaps she was a noble wife 

Of some one kind and true. 
And when the skj^ was overcast 

She knew just w^hat to do; 
And when the end of life had come 

Her children mourned the day 
That took her from the noisy Avorld 

To the land of Far Away, 

The ashes of my memory 

Are bitter sweet indeed, 
As gazing at thy lineaments, 

Thy name I long to read. 
But recollection serves me not — 

Forgotten is the face 
I found upon the faded glass 

Within the velvet case. 



85 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



Liebestraume* 

Oh, what longings in the song* 

That ripples through the measures! 
Smooth cadences! Sing-ing" sorrow 

O'er the loss of human treasure. 
Dost thou tell of sighing* lover, 

Who, desponding, murmureth oft. 
That the one he once had worshiped 

Vanished like the zephj'r soft? 

Oh, the pain of severed heartstring, 

And the moan of riven breast, 
And the shudder and the flutter — 

Love repulsed when once confessed. 
Eoses plucked and cast aside 

Hold their fragrance but an hour; 
Then, like leaves in autumn scattered, 

Wither, crumble^ — lose their power. 

And the rhythm of the music. 

As it steals along the keys, 
Tells of thoughts akin to sadness — 

Of the face one never sees. 
And the music blossoms dropping 

With the touch of human hand, 
Lend us sweet anticipation 

Of the song of Heavenland. 



86 



AX EPITAPH. 



An Epitaph. 

Eeader, as you X3ass along, 

Your life with vigor filled, 
Gaze upon the earthly mound 

My body helped to build. 
It hardly seems a day to me 

Since I like you appeared, 
When life was just as sweet and dear 

And death I little feared. 

Cut here I am, beneath the sod, 

My body naught but clay. 
My soul has flown to other lands, 

Although I longed to stay. 
'Tis not for me to whisjier low 

And tell you where I've gone. 
It would not help you on in life, 

Nor make you less forlorn. 

My heart once throbbed as fast as yours 

In love and warm affection; 
I smoothed the tresses, golden-like — 

The maid had no objection; 
But when she rudely cast me down. 

And others got the smiles, 
I felt the same as you, mj' friend, 

When woman soft beguiles. 



87 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

Ambition, too, once filled my breast, 

And spurred to brighter thing's; 
I thought, perhaps, before I left 

I'd stand among the kings. 
But now the lilies, bending low, 

Perfumes above me throw, 
And all the friends I counted on 

Forgot me years ago. 

And while the Hand of Mystery 

Permits me not to speak 
Of knowledge that I have attained, 

And that which mortals seek — 
I fain would warn thee, passing friend, 

Be careful of thy life; 
Be wise, be patient, virtuous — 

Avoid unseemly strife. 



The Bells. 

Ringing out in dead of night, 

The bells with brazen sound 
Tell frequently of danger near, 

When men are heroes crowned. 
And clanging out in ringing tones. 

We seem to hear them say, 
"Save your brother's life to-night, 

Though flame be in the way." 



THE BELLS. 

And, then, again the pealing- bells 

A peaceful message send, 
And serve to warn the youthful mind 

To studies early bend. 
'Tis then the playful antics cease 

And earnest deeds come in, 
The boy resents the swing-ing- bell 

Whene'er the sounds begin. 

Mournful tolls the muffled bell; 

Its measured tones imply 
That shorter grows this weary life — 

We're here to do and die. 
Perhaps the bell the story tells 

The loss of dearest friend. 
And bids us plan to meet the time 

When life is at an end. 

Our lives are governed by the bells 

That ring from mom to night, 
That start us in our daily toil 

And ring at fading light. 
Oh, listen to the chiming bells 

That bid us worship Him 
Who finally will pull the cord 

When djang eyes are dim. 



89 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



Troubles of Our Own. 

On every hand you'll find them, 

They are crowding at the door — 
The weary and the friendless, 

And those Avhose hearts are sore. 
For not all are over happy 

When they're reaj^ing what they've sowm. 
And at times we give our pit}', 

Though we've troubles of our own. . 

When our sun is shining brightly 

And we feel like righting wrongs. 
We are prone to think that others 

Like ourselves are singing songs. 
Though we cannot pick the roses 

That are blooming all alone. 
We should help the fallen comrade. 

Though we've troubles of our own. 

All we need is little i^atience, 

And a cheery smile or two, 
And our sorrow will diminish 

With the good we find to do. 
Let's extend the hand of friendship 

And our brother's faults condone — 
It will ease the heavy burdens 

When we've troubles of our own. 



90 



Son§;s» 

Let's sing" the songs — 
The old songs! 
Of the days when hearts were lightest. 

When the blossoming trees 

And the tiitting bees 
Made the thoughts of j^outh the brightest. 

Let's sing' the songs — 
The dear songs! 

Of the time when we little ones wept, 
When the tick of the clock 
Kept time with the rock 

Of the cradle in which we slept. 

Let's sing- the songs — 
The merry songs! 
Of the days when the children played 

In the dancing ring 

With shout and fling, 
When time in its flight was stayed. 

Let's sing the songs — 
The sweet songs! 
Of the days of love-warmed bliss, 

When vows were given 

And hearts were riven, 
And troths were sealed with a kiss. 

91 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

Let's sing the song's — 
The new songs! 

In the midst of the present battle, 
And stand for the right 
In the thick of the fight, 

And scorn the worry and tattle. 



A Forlorn Virtue* 

When He who made the snn and earth, 

The sea and all that's in it, 
And from the rib a woman made 

(A deed of just a minute), 

He gave the man nobilitj^ 

The woman lovely grace. 
And all the things that go to make 

This i^atched-up human race. 

In mixing up the good and bad, 

One virtue was neglected. 
Sweet "Gratitude" was quite forgot, 

And what could be expected? 

The world has turned a million times, 
And men have come and gone, 

Yet "Gratitude" remains the same — 
Deserted, sad, forlorn. 



92 



TIIFO OLTt DAYH. 



The Old Days. 

In iho old-fiinc (hiys ol" loiij^ -a'^o 

VVIien \\i\\ seemed ()iil\' pl.iv, 
I mi^lit li;i\(' said "I love \«)ii so!" 

Had I I<iH)\vii jiisl w'lial, to say. 
Ildl I hen yon (lidtiM know that I, 

Tlion^^li sileid, wonid liavc waited, 
Antl _\c( I eonid not tell you wliy 

I thoni^lil thai we wefr rnah-d. 

And in f hose happy days of old 

^'onr- sndh'S meant ni«)fe to me 
'I'han ail the f^ems ol' shirdnp; ^old 

Thai, kin^s did ever see. 
Speaking" eyes CJin sometimes l/cll 

What lips will not, impaft. 
And glances oil deserihe loo well 

The lo\c Ihat's in the lieafl. 

If we liad known in older lime 

Tlie Hlornis that, were to hr^-ak - 
How roilf^'h the path wc had to ciiml) 

Vor poor amhit ion's sake 
Our Ir-iendsinp mi<,';Iil have been I he same 

All Ihron^h the sprcdin;', \'ears, 
And neither could the other- hiame 

For that which r-au.-,.d t Ik- h-ars. 



IKJ 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

'Tis hard for us to understand 

The power that came between, 
And broke the clasp of fevered hand 

In a way quite unforeseen. 
Perhaps the word was left unsaid 

That mig'ht have sealed our fate, 
Perhaps 'twas well that courage fled 

In the time of youth's estate. 

The breakers dash along- the shore, 

The sands of life are shifting". 
And thoug-h we hear the billows roar, 

We know the clouds are lifting. 
And you and I still stumble on 

With half the battle won, 
And still we're hop)ing for the dawn 

That ushers in the sun. 



And More's the Pity. 

Some close their eyes to human cry, 
Thoug-h thousands they possess, 

Nor deign to hear the lonely sigh 
Of the wretched fatherless. 

And more's the pity! 

Some cease to think of other's weal 
When fortune strokes their face. 

And ponder not on how they'd feel 
Were they in the other's place, 
And more's the pity! 



94 



AND MORE S THE PITY. 

Some cannot see that sweetened life 
From deeds of kindness spring-, 

And bring" to play the two-edged knife 
That gives the double sting-, 

And more's the pity! 

Some cannot see the little thing-s 
That make this life worth living-. 

Nor heed the voice that softly sings 
Of peace won through forgiving, 
And more's the pity! 

Some cannot feel the beating heart 

That throbs in aching breast. 
They know not what it is to part 

With those they love the best, 
And more's the pity! 

Some see their fate in shining star 

And judge their life by luck. 
Not thinking that the only bar 

Is lack of jDush and pluck. 

And more's the pity! 

Some search this weary world in vain 

For objects idealistic; 
The more they search, the more the pain 

In yearnings for the mystic, 

And more's the pity! 

And sweet the day! And blest the night! 

When worldlings heed the song 
That thrills the soul with thoughts of right 
And deprecates the wrong. 

No more's the pity! 
9o 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



Midnight. 

When day has died and stealing night 

Takes jjlace of toilsome hours, 
And dusk gives way to shadows dark, 

And beauty seeks her bowers, 
'Tis then that midnight ereepeth on 

With stillness like the grave. 
And gives to them who seeketh rest 

A peace the tired crave. 

Away with superstition's fear 

That fills the timid mind 
With goblins and all sorts of things 

That stroll at midnight wind. 
For there are those who ought to know 

That when the steeple bell 
Chimes out the stately notes of twelve 

It has but peace to tell. 

So let the fearful heart sleep on, 

Afraid to nature meet. 
And give us, pray, the blessedness — 

The joys of midnight sweet. 
'Tis then the soul communes with stars 

And feels the Maker's power; 
'Tis then that nature seems the best 

In the quiet midnight hour. 



96 



LIFE S SPEIXGTIME. 



Life's Springtime* 

In spring the tiny sprout is tender, 

Green and softly bending", 
The crocus buds are timid-like 

And coyly unoffending. 
In many ways the things of life 

Assume the fragile phase, 
Just as they did with you and me 

In spring of youthful days. 

And everything seems blithe and glad 

As warming sun descends, 
And, taking courage then and there, 

The twig more firmlj^ bends. 
Just so it was with you and me 

When we w^ere j^oung and growing; 
We lightly faced disastrous odds. 

Nor thought we'd reap the sowing. 

And when the spring and summer time 

Give way to bleaker days, 
The curling leaves soon softly drop, 

And cold the twilight gray. 
Quite so it is with you and me 

Whose courage once was well, 
The leaves of life will drop with us, 

With twilight comes the knell. 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



Sister Casimir* 

[These lines were written November 8, 1897, in memoriam 
of Sister Mary Casimir (Elizabeth Day), who died at Mt. 
St. Mary's Convent, November 5, 1897. She had been con- 
nected with the Order of Mercy in Manchester for seven- 
teen years, and possessed a nobility of soul and brilliancy 
of mind rarely excelled.] 

Hush! A soul has g-one! 

And softly ends the night! 
Now begins the golden dawn — 

Eternity in sight. 

We'll ne'er forget thy g-entle mind, 

Thy tenderness and g-race; 
We search, and still we fail to find 

The one to fill thy jDlace. 

These many years, with patience rare, 

And sweet consideration, 
Hast thou bestowed most faithful care 

On passing" generation. 

And though ag-ain we ne'er shall see 

Thy kindly face, and true, 
Thy influence will ever be 

Our guide in all we do. 

'Tis hard! We cannot understand 

The way that God provides, 
JBut still we seek the Mig-hty Hand 

In which our faith abides. 



THE SWEETEST DAY. 

We've seen the flow'ret fade and fall- 

Its fragrance disappear, 
But memory, oft, in sweet recall, 

Brings back what we revere. 

lieg-rets we have, and sigh we must, 
We mourn the vacant chair; 

We miss the face we used to trust — 
The thoughts we liked to share. 

And so, farewell! We only grieve 

That we are left alone, 
Eejoicing in that we believe 

Thou standest near The Throne. 



The Sweetest Day. 

When fleecy bank and mist that's dank 

Obscure cerulean view. 
And it really seems that the golden beams 

Would never filter throug'h — 
'Tis then we drift, till the breaking rift 

Dispels the gathering gloom. 

And sunshine comes, and nature hums, 

And things are on the boom. 
It's the sweetest day, as all will say, 

When the clouds are spread apart — 
When the golden light refreshes sight 

And thaws the icv heart. 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



Consolation* 

All throng-h this life 'tis hide and seek 

x\nd chasing" meadow lights, 
Grinding' down the poor and -weak 

And tnmbling- from the heights. 
The strong"est one receives the praise 

The crippled genius fails, 
And when we want the sunny days, 

It rains, and snows, and hails. 

Life seems to us a crazy-quilt, 

A checker-board of strife — 
Castles fall as soon as built, 

We often feel the knife. 
And when we think we have a friend, 

We find it isn't so — 
And thus we're sailing to the end 

On streams that fitful flow. 

But he who fights and wins the day 

In such a world as this 
Is fit to wear the crown and stay 

In Paradisic bliss. 
And after all, the thought is sweet. 

When comes the soft "Good-bye!" 
That iron Fate will kindly treat 

The one who'll bravely die. 



100 



A SONG OF TO-DAY. 



A Song of To-day^ 

Oh, let not the pain, the sorrow and tears 
Of the days that have melted away, 

Find room in the heart 

That was broken apart 
By the troubles of sad yesterday. 

But welcome the carol of sweet singing birds 
In the shade of the sycamore tree, 

And the silvery song 

As the brook runs along 
On its way to the far distant sea. 

But little they reck of the storms of the past, 
Nor question the rig'ht or the wrong. 

The birds are still singing, 

The brook is yet flinging 
Its foam as it dances along. 

Think not of the pain of the days that are gone, 
But gladden the day that is here. 

The sun is still shining — 

The gloom undermining — 
The sky of the present is clear. 



101 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



The Leaf. 

Kissed by the sun, the rippling" wave 

Dances from shore to shore, 
Touching- the moss-green worn-away stones 

That border the silver floor. 
The leaf that drops in the shining flood 

Is the cause of the rippling- wave, 
Sending the circles far beyond, 

Seeking- the land to lave. 

Little things drop in the flood of life 

And the ripples go dancing on; 
Wider and wider they seem to grow, 

As night gives way to the dawn. 
Often we find that little things show 

The doing of greater deeds — 
The little leaf starts the rippling wave — 

To greater things softly leads. 



Bend Ye Low! 

Bend ye low, ye lily. 

To Majesty above; 
Send aloft thy fragrance — 

A token of thy love. 
Teach me how to worship, 

With humility and grace, 
The Father who created us, 

And set us in this place. 

102 



LOVE niM A LITTLE. 

Thy velvet j)etals, moistened 

With kind, refreshing" dew, 
Eemind ns of the flowers 

That in heaven grew. 
Breath of angels fanned thee, 

Made thy perfume sweet, 
A single lily dropped away — 

We see thee at our feet. 



Love Him a Little* 

Love him a little, 'tis all he asks. 

To him 'tis a lifting- power; 
Love him a little for what he does, 

'Twill help in the darkened honr. 
Love him a little and then you'll lead 

The man bj^ the silken thread; 
Love him a little, 'tis all he asks, 

For thus is the spirit fed. 

Love him a little, love him well. 

The sands in the glass are falling; 
Love him a little before the time 

The Angel of Death is calling. 
Love him a little before the sun 

Has sunken behind the hill; 
Love him a little before the heart 

In its case of claj^ is still. 



103 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 



A Sunshine Morning;* 

Time flies, we go and come, 
We say the sad g'ood-bj^e. 

Perhaps 'tis well 

That none can tell 
The hour in which we die. 

We softly press the friendly hand, 
The parting soon is o'er. 

'Tis the sweetest thing 

That none can sing 
What the morrow has in store. 

Fate is kind in all it does — 
We know not what is coming. 
Let's sip the wine — 
What's yours is mine — 
Here's to a sunshine morning! 



104 



SONGS OF THE HOME. 



KATIE. 



Katie* 

True comfort it is in the early morn 

When Katie comes on with the tray. 
The muffins are steaming- she hands to you, 

'Tis thus she begins the day. 
For Katie is rosy and smiling-, too. 

With tresses as black as the night; 
She comes when you tinkle the silver bell 

Like the old-time fairy sprite. 

But more substantial is Katie dear 

Than fairies the children knew; 
No w^and she waves to wonders work. 

She's not of the ghostly crew. 
Hot coffee she brings to the thirsty one 

That strengthens the work of the day, 
And welcome indeed is the breakfast hour 

When Katie comes on with the tray. 

For Katie has many a handsome beau. 

Eight fresh from the Erin isle; 
The thought of the love of the honest heart 

Is the secret of Katie's smile. 
Once Katie was queen on the little farm 

That's peaceful across the sea; 
The memory sweet of the old folks there 

Will sacred to Katie be. 



107 



SONGS OF THE HOME. 

Hail to the call of the breakfast bell, 

When Katie comes on with the tray! 
We care not for trouble and sorrow then 

When the muffins are on the way. 
And Katie is smiling- and rosy, too, 

The coffee is steaming hot, 
So welcome the call of the breakfast bell, 

And blessed be Katie's lot. 



Julie's Song. 

Sing' me the old song's, Julie, 
You used to years ago. 

Let me slumber, Julie, 
To music soft and low. 

My youth's returning, Julie, 
Your cheek to mine is pressed, 

As bending o'er me, Julie, 
You sing the songs of rest. 

That drowsy feeling, Julie, 
Is stealing o'er my brain. 

Just keep on singing, Julie, 
That same old song again. 

Still you soothe me, Julie, 
In tones surpassing clear; 

I sleep in spirit, Julie, 

To the songs I used to hear. 

108 



THE LITTLE OLD HOME. 



The Little Old Home* 

Dear memory sing's 

Of the little old home, 
That stood on the hill on the farm. 

And the butternut trees 

That sighed in the breeze 
Still murmur their tender-like psalm. 

And blossoming- vines 

Ean over the x^orch, 
As f rag-rant as roses in June; 

And choice w.as the hour 

We spent in the bower, 
With nature in sweetest attune. 

Not the least of the visions 
Of childhood's delig-ht, 
That flit through the mind of to-day, 

Is the radiant spot 

Where w^e eagerly sought 
The flowers in tempting array. 

Lilies, verbenas, and 

Low-bending grasses 
Were close by the velvety rose — 

The pansies looked up 

To the wild buttercup, 
And there's where the sweet-william grows. 



109 



SONGS OF THE HOME. 

Down in the orchard 

The wide branches spread, 
And gay was the red robin's song-. 

There's where the bees 

'Neath the sheltering trees 
Were busy all summer day long-. 

While the children are out 

In the storm-beaten world, 
And the lights in the fireplace fall. 

Sit father and mother 

Consoling each other 
As the shadows are danced on the wall. 

Dear were the days 

Of the sweet-scented clover, 
And few were the thoughts of the morrow, 

And cloudless the sky 

Of our sweet by-and-by — 
But little we dreamed of the sorrow. 

And something is left 

In the little old home — 
Something that's tender and true. 

In the house on the hill. 

There, lonely and still, 
Are the old pjeople waiting for you. 



110 



THE HUSKING. 



The Huskingf* 

Heed the invitation, 
Bring- the girls around, 
Lots of little red ears, 
Waiting to be found. 

Lively is the cornbin. 
Husks are on the fly. 
Nimble fingers working. 
Corn is piling high. 

Music in the corner, 
Fiddler's doing well. 
Mother's getting supper. 
Know it by the smell. 

Loud a burst of laughter. 
Makes the echoes ring. 
Some one's found a red ear- 
A forfeit it'll bring. 

Blushing little damsel. 
Tried to get away. 
Fate decreed against her, 
A kiss she had to pay. 



Ill 



SONGS OF THE HOME. 

Hour or so of pleasure, 
Seems 'twould never die. 
Now the work is over — 
Time for pumpkin pie. 

Good things soon are eaten, 
Farmers make a break 
To find the cider barrel 
Raving- thirst to slake. 

Clock is striking- midnight. 
Lanterns light the way, 
Sweethearts travel homewards, 
Love begins the day. 



112 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 



THE RAINBOW LAND. 



The Rainbow Land. 

The little boy's eyes were closed in sleep, 

As the dream bells chimed the hour. 
A faithful watch did the angels keep 

O'er the little boy's resting- bower. 
Like rippling waves of the silver stream 

That washes the smooth-white sand 
Smiles o'er the little boy's face would gleam 

In his flight to the rainbow land. 

The little boy's dream will never be told; 

The secret is all his own. 
Beautiful things did God unfold 

For the little boy's eyes alone. 
When he awoke, the smiles were there, 

But he could not understand 
Why any one else should ever care 

To know of the rainbow land. 

Little he thought, this golden-haired boy, 

Of the scenes of the far-away clime, 
Pleasantest dreams were his to enjoy — 

The sweets of his slumber time. 
No wonder he smiled, if the little boy heard 

The songs of the angel band, 
And witnessed the flight of the paradise bird 

In the realms of the rainbow land. 



115 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 

His are the days of the frag-rant rose, 

And skies are red in the west. 
Nothing of trouble the little boy knows, 

As he sleeps in his downy nest. 
Let's lay down the burden of life awhile 

To be led by the childish hand, 
Then we can share in the little boy's smile, 

As he drifts to the 'rainbow land. 



Margfuerite* 

A tender blossom, Marguerite, 

Your manners captivate; 
Your cheeks are dimpled, ]\rarguerite, 

Your smiles they punctuate. 
Your eyes are brighter, Marguerite, 

Than twinkling stars galore; 
You've roguish glances. Marguerite — 

And yet, you're only four. 

You grace no ball room, Marguerite, 

Nor lead Dame Fashion's set; 
You're strictly proper, [Marguerite, 

No gallants have you yet. 
None can blame you, ]\Iarguerite, 

If your affection's cold. 
You cannot help it. Marguerite, 

You're only four years old. 



116 



THE AUTHENTIC VERSION. 



The Authentic Version, 

Tommy Tucker, bib and all, 

Met Jack and Jill together, 
'Twas just before the accident. 

And balmy was the weather. 
Tommy threw a kiss to Jill 

('Twas done in just a minute), 
Jack in anger threw his pail, 

And Tommy wasn't in it. 

Jack, the Nimble, was the cop, 

He heard the doleful din. 
And tossed away his candlestick 

And pulled poor Jackj- in. 
Tommy Tucker couldn't move, 

He laid as in a trance; 
They took him to the hosiDital 

In a bounding" ambulance. 

And Mary, Quite Contrary, said 

She couldn't comprehend 
Why Tommy Tucker should presume 

To Jill his kisses send. 
And Jack was hauled before the court, 

To j)ay his money down; 
He then went out to till his pail. 

And fell and broke his crown. 



11^ 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 



The Sawdust DoIL 

Chipped and battered nose and chin. 

The rosy cheeks are soiled; 
Her eyes of glass wonld not stay in; 

The giue-on hair was spoiled. 
For years and j'ears the lady's face 

Was turned toward the wall, 
Because in this particular case 

She was onlj^ a sawdust doll. 

And who'll forget the muslin dress, 

With tucks in great j^rofusion, 
And spots of pink all up and down 

In bewildering confusion. 
Fingers deft had pinned the bow 

That kept the worsted shawl 
Around the neck, as white as snow, 

Of the old-time sawdust doll. 

Stars in the night are no more bright 

Than the eyes of the laughing maid, 
Who sang her songs in sweet delight 

O'er the doll that was thus arrayed. 
And naught can buy the lady fair. 

Now battered beyond recall, 
Because of the maid with sunshine hair 

Who played with the sawdust doll. 



118 



AKBELLA. 



Af Bella ♦ 

Oh, dainty Arbella, 

There comes to my mind 
A time in the eighties, 
Don't think I'm nnkind. 

For, dainty Arbella, 

I kissed jou, and squeezed, 
Don't look so reproachful, 
I'm sure you were i)leased. 

For, daintj^ Arbella, 

Your years were but two, 
Your pinafore rumpled 
And untied the shoe. 

And, dainty Arbella, 

I tossed you about; 

Y'ou laughed and you chuckled. 

Forgotten the pout. 

But, dainty Arbella, 

You're graceful and tall; 
Y'our beauty is striking. 
And that is not all. 

For, dainty Arbella, 

You're sixteen and more, 
And kissing's improper, 
And squeezing, a bore. 

119 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 



Little Petey* 

For he opened wide his eyes, as he gazed into 

the skies, 
And his curly head was bobbing- to and fro. 
For he wondered why the stars from the milky 

way to ISIars 
Seemed to twinkle like the crystals on the 

sno^y. 

*'They are diamonds," Petey said, as he wisely 

shook his head, 
*'And I'll tell you how they came uj) in the sky; 
It is so the robber men couldn't g-et them down 

again ; 
Don't you think, papa, I'ye told the reason 
why?" 

And I pinched the dimpled cheek in a manner 

to bespeak 
All the love I had for curly-headed Pete, 
And I told him how the stars, from the milky 

way to Mars, 
Was the golden path that leads to Heaven's 

street. 



120 



JOHNNY S NOAH S ARK. 

And I told the little stor^', how the souls in all 
their giorj^ 

Had been mounting' through the stars for many- 
years, 

And 'twas farthest from my thought, that my 
curly-headed tot 

Would leave me while I lingered here in tears. 



And 'tis now my dear delight, as I peer into 

the nig-ht, 
To keep my ejes iipon the milky "^vay, 
And I fancy I can see some one reaching out 

to me, 
Like the little boy who's gone so far awa3\ 



Johnny's Noah's Ark* 

'Twas Christmas eve in Boston town and nearly 

twelve o'clock, 
When Johnn}' Jones sat by the hearth and thus 

his tongue did talk: 
Oh, father, dear, when Santa comes, as quiet 

as a ghost, 
I wish you'd whisper in his ear the things I 

want the most. 



121 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDEEN. 

I'd like an ark — a Noah's ark — as brightly red 
as blood, 

And all the beasts that ever grew before or 
since the flood. 

I'd like a hippopotamus, a dog, and cunning 
fox, 

An elephant, and yellow cow, and a wooden- 
headed ox. 

A dromedarj', tuft and all — a horse of noble 

mien, 
A tiger from the far Bengal, and a si^iteful 

wolverine. 
And, father, dear, when Santa's here, I want a 

kinkajou, 
A teledu and tatouay, and a ring-tailed sap- 

ajou. 

Please don't forget the kangaroo and the grunt- 
ing chauri yak, 

A zebra, too, the jumping kind, and stripes 
around his back. 

And give me, pray, an ichneumon and a grin- 
ning chimjDanzee, 

Lions, leopards, long giraffe, and the graceful 
wapiti. 

A porcupine with prickly quills and the bearded 

wanderoo, 
The green and golden chrysochlore and a babi- 

roussa, too. 

122 



johnny's noaii's aek. 

And Santa knows I'd like a bear, a koodoo and 
kahau, 

A jumping- mouse, and antelope, and a rusty- 
red nylghau. 

Last of all my ark should have a horny arma- 
dillo, 

A pebo with his armor — an alpaca like a pillow, 

An ornithorynchus, taniarin, the ermine called 
the stoat. 

And don't forget the gay poyou and the agile 
cashmere goat. 



No answer came, the boy looked up, the father's 
eyes w^ere closed; 

He couldn't stand the language that his cul- 
tured son imposed. 

Santa stayed away that night, and crape was 
on the door, 

And Johnny didn't get the ark with quadrupeds 
g-alore. 



123 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 



The Saucy Flake* 

A crisp and withered little leaf, 

Lonesome and dejected, 
Was whisked along- the roadside, 

By every wind aifected. 

Once 'twas fresh and brightly green, 

And golden later on — 
Alas! The frost had done its work, 

The leaf was quite forlorn. 

A saucy flake of crystal snow, 

The first of all the season. 
Softly fell beside the leaf, 

And thus began to reason: 

*'0h, my! How dirty brown you are. 

'Tis quite beyond belief! 
Why should I keep j^ou com^Dany, 

You worthless little leaf!" 



And crushed the saucy flake. 
And what was once so crystal white, 
Did muddy j)udding make. 



124 



WHAT THE PANSY SAID. 

"Ah me! Ah me!" the leaf opined. 
"It always Avas the way, 

And every snarling- little dog- 
Is sure to have his daj^!" 

Ag-ain the wind a-whirling- came, 
The leaf went sailing- on. 

'Twas then the saucy flake did wish 
It never had been born. 



What the Pansy Said. 

Dear Miss ]Marig-old 
Lowered her head, 

Intent upon hearing- 
What the Pansy said. 

"How nice it would be," 
Said the Pansy bold, 

"To wander about 
Like knig-hts of old. 

"Over the land 

And across the sea — 
A beautiful trip 

For you and me. 

"We'd climb the Alps, 
And cross the plain, 

Sail on the lakes 
And back again. 

125 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 

"The world would stare, 
While on we went, 

And wonder what 
Our journey meant." 

Just then the wind 

Made a cutting snap — 
Miss Marigold's head 
Went oif with a snap! 

The Pansy's eyes 
Were wide with affright, 
And she turned away 
At the terrible sight. 

She sighed and said. 
With a mournfiil shake: 

"What dreadful risks 
Some folks do take!" 



Dreamlands 

He was gold withoiit alloy, 
Our little blue-eyed boy. 

And he bubbled and he chuckled 
All the day. 

When home I came a-bounding, 
His prattle was astounding. 

And he soon forgot that I had 
Been away. 

126 



DEEAMLAND. 

He climbed upon my knees 
Without even "if you i^lease," 

And lie made my cheeks a bright 
And ros3^ red. 

He punched me with his fist, 
And my bearded face he kissed, 

And his mother took him laughing 
Off to bed. 

My heart was filled with song 
As I often went along 

To see if he were nicely 
Tucked away. 

And I feasted on the sight 
Of my golden-haired delight 

As in dreamland he was smiling 
As in play. 

His toys, most rudely battered, 
Around his crib were scattered — 
His shovel and his little 
Train of cars. 

No more j'ou'll hear his rattle, 
His chuckle and his prattle. 

For the blue-eyed boy is now 
Among the stars. 



127 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 

In dreamland he is playing, 
With ang-els he is staying", 

And I know that he will surely 
Wait for me. 

Since I put away the toys — • 
But few have been my joj^s, 

And the little blue-eyed boy I 
Long" to see. 



Little Johnnie* 

On a bright sunny morn, as toot went the horn, 
Little Johnnie jumped high in his g'lee. 

He sat up all nig^ht and howled with his might, 
He was noisy as noisy could be. 

Some son of a gun, with an idea of fun. 
Knew Johnnie had j)owder in j)Ocket; 

He lighted a match, with a brief little scratch, 
And Johnnie went up like a rocket! 

'Neath a green little mound can Johnnie be 
found. 

Where wind through the willow tree sings. 
For Johnnie sailed high to the sweet by-and-by. 

And was given a pair of white wings. 



128 



A LULLABY SOXG. 



A Lullaby Songf^ 

Drooping j'our ej-elids, 

I sing' to you, dear, 
You are entering the land of dreams;: 

The things of the world 

Will soon disappear, 
And soft are the silver beams. 

Hushed is the prattle 

Of my little boy, 
And rosy the angel's face; 

Nothing at all 

Will baby annoy 
While he's gone to the dreamland place. 

Sleep away, pretty, 

Smiling and true. 
And happy your thoughts must be. 

What are your dreams? 

Are they golden, too, 
Like the hair that is waving free? 

Mother is near. 

Sleep, my child; 
The angel of peace looks on; 

Hush-a-by, little one. 

There, you've smiled! 
Oh, where have the blue eyes gone? 



129 



SONGS FOE THE CHILDREN. 

The man in the moon 

Is watching you; 
He smiles when you are asleep, 

And, baby, dear, 

The long- night through, 
Keen vigils the bright stars keep. 



The Whistlingf Boy* 

Here he comes! Clattering along. 
With puckered lips and heart of song. 

Freckled face and stubby nose, 
Cheeks as red as the velvet rose. 

Little he cares for all your trouble — 
Life to him is a gorgeous bubble. 

His whistling's heard above the din, 
Whenever his j)uckered lips begin. 

^Up and down the scale he goes — 
In varied styles the music flows. 

He whistles them out with equal vim — 
vOpera gems and the gospel hymn. 

.Hat on the back of his bullet head, 
He's noisy enough to awaken the dead. 

We wish you well, and lots of joy — 
:You careless, freckled, whistling boy. 



130 



SIGNOR LUM BAGO. 



Signof Lum Ba§fo. 

The man with the org"an, 
Sing- tra-la-la-lee ! 

Was a nobleman in disguise. 
In corduroj's gray, 
He played all the day — 

The monkey was blinking his eyes. 

From o'er the wide ocean, 

Sing- tra-la-la-lee! 
This grinder had been but a week. 

He soon fell in love 

With a freckled-cheeked dove, 
Who married the mottle-faced freak. 

It pleased the Four Hundred, 
Sing tra-la-la-lee! 

'Twas heralded far and wide — 
How Signor Lum Bago, 
The high-crested Dago, 

Was bought hj a millionaire bride. 



131 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDEEN. 



The Golden-Headed Bug;. 

A g'olclen-headecl bug' on a 
Morning--giory vine, 

All alone! 
Blinked and lie winked as the 
Sun began to shine, 

All alone! 

He couldn't understand when a 
Fellow came along-, 

All alone! 
And put him in a box where he 
Xever did belong-, 

All alone! 

The bug- he didn't know that the 
Fellow took a shine. 

All alone! 
To a g-olden-headed bug- on a 
Morning-g-lory vine, 

All alone! 

You hardly would believe it, but 
The little bug had fits. 
All alone! 
When the fellow took him home and 
Cut him into bits, 

All alone! 



132 



LITTLE GREEN APPLE. 

And science was delighted when 
The magic lantern sheet, 
All alone! 
Showed the golden bug's internals, minus 
Head and wings and feet. 
All alone! 



Little Green Apple^ 

Sing hey! The green apple 
That falls to the boy, 

Whose mission on earth 
Is but to destroy-. 

The little green apj)le, 

So shiny and hard, 
Takes that little boy 

Quite off of his guard. 

Hot stuff and the doctors 

Won't cut any ice, 
For the flip little boy 

Will soon jiay the price. 

A little green apple 

Caused 'most all the pain, 
And a little green mound 

Was the little boy's gain. 

133 



SONGS FOR THE CHILDREN. 



The Vain Caterpillar* 

Caterpillar crawling u\) a sour apple tree, 
And he was as jDretty as i)retty could be. 
Up and down his back were tuffets in a row, 
Bobbing up and down, as the wind did blow. 

His plumes were blue, and some were green. 
Such a high-toned crawler was seldom seen. 
And the little caterpillar — proud was he, 
As he kept on climbing up the sour apple tree. 

A blackbird sat on a limb overhead; 
He was thinking hard of his daily bread. 
He turned his head — Oh, toothsome sight! 
Never was a caterpillar in such a plight. 

Down swooped the blackbird — and, Hully Gee! 
There was no more climbing up the sour apple 

tree. 
As he polished up his bill, the blackbird said: 
"I'd rather be a bird, than a caterpillar dead!" 



134 



BEFOKE AND AFTER. 



Before and After* 

Ye lad hath dreams of merriment 

About ye morrow's spread; 
Visions of ye gobbler turk 

Doth circle 'round his bed. 
Chicken pie and cakes to burn, 

Nuts and raisins, too. 
Fill his mind with keen delight 

Of happiness in view. 

But when ye day hath come and gone, 

Ye dreamlet takes a change; 
He seeth things of frig-htful mien 

And visions passing strange. 
All ye night the goblins dance 

Around ye pillow sli^D, 
And then ye lad is sorry that 

He ate at such a clip. 



135 



STORIES IN SONG. 



BALLAD OF EOCK EIMMOISr. 



Ballad of Rock Rimmon. 

Before the Avhite man saw the stream 

That dashes o'er the rocks 
Of Amioskeag- and flows along- 

By mills and modern locks, 
A swarthy maid with raven hair, 

And eyes that brig-htly shone, 
Awoke the hearts of hunting* braves, 

Who loved the j)eerless fawn. 

The daughter of the chief possessed 

The virtues of a queen. 
And graces that in savage days 

Were rarely ever seen. 
One by one, the sternest men 

Who ever trailed a deer, 
Laid trophies at the maiden's feet 

To win the smiles that cheer. 

But all who sought the fair one's hand 

Beturned with drooping* mien, 
And clouded brows and faces set 

With disai)pointment keen. 
For like the maid of present days. 

Who knows her winning- power, 
The maiden smiled the plaints away 

And kept within her bower. 



139 



STORIES IN SONG. 

One sultry summer's afternoon, 

The scouts on distant j)eaks 
Sent signals by their winding smoke 

Aloft in ribboned streaks. 
The code, when gravely read in camp. 

Was quickly spread about — 
A stranger came from southern lands, 

Whose heart was tried and stout. 

And Pequot prince, with royal shout 

And tom-toms beating fast. 
Was welcomed in the village street 

For trials he had passed. 
A message w^rapped in otter's skin 

Had been his pride to carrj^. 
And when delivered, rest he craved, 

For which he fain would tarry. 

And, on the morrow, passing by 

The maiden's modest tent. 
He spied the eyes that bright!}^ gleamed 

With lig'ht divinely sent. 
The blood in Pequot's veins was fired, 

His heart was beating high, 
He pressed his suit, and "vvon the maid — 

With him she'd gladly fly. 

Not since the day the sun-god came 

To warm the earth to life. 
Did such a thing bestir the braves 

To most unseemlj' strife. 



140 



BALLAD OF ROCK RIMMON. 

Whispered talk and grating- teeth, 

And looks that boded ill, 
Foretold the fact that savag-e men 

For vengeance planned to kill. 

Eock Eimmon was the trysting- place, 

Where Pequot met the maid, 
And high above the rolling- plain 

The moon shone o'er the g-lade. 
With clasping- hands and face to face, 

No fleeting- moment missed. 
The Pequot prince, so tried and true, 

The chieftain's dang-hter kissed. 

* •«■ ^ * % * * 

Hark! A crackle from the bush! 

A sound to Pequot ear 
That told of creeping- enemies 

And danger lurking- near. 
Behind him stealthy foes were crouched, 

The maid was at his side, 
Before him was the downward leap — 

'Twas death to him who tried. 

Faintly whispered words of hope. 

And then the fondest kiss — 
Pequot prince and maiden fair 

Sprang o'er the wild abyss. 
And crawling braves with hating hearts, 

Whose thoughts were but to kill, 
Shuddered at the Pequot' s yell — 

And then the night was still. 

* * « * * * -Sfr 

141 



STOEIES IN SONG. 

Many moons have come and gone 

O'er Eimmon's frowning- brow, 
And all the tribes of savage men 

Are dreams quite misty now. 
But still, 'tis said, with air of truth, 

Whene'er the moon is right, 
That one can see as f)lain as day, 

These lovers take their flight. 



Loon Island's Priest* 

[Loon Island, one of the prettiest bits of land in Lake 
Massabesic, is also one of the most romantic spots on the 
bosom of these beautiful waters. It is related that centuries 
ago, on the little island, the Indian medicine man held his 
sway, and made his sacrifices. Here the gods were appeased, 
and warnings of disaster or presages of victory uttered.] 

'Twas two hundred years ago or more, 

When verdure crowned the hills. 
And where the town and hamlet stand 

Were trees and dashing rills. 
The men who touched New England's shores, 

In ships with bulging sails. 
Dared not to w^ander far away 

On long and winding trails. 

The Pennacooks, a mighty tribe. 

Then held the whole domain; 
They knew the subtle perfidy 

That whiter men attain. 



14-2 



LOON ISLAND'S PRIEST. 

They fattened up the wampum belt 

By trading far and wide 
With men whose skin was quite as red, 

Whose ways were waj's of pride. 

And over on the sandy shores 

Of Massabesic Lake, 
The new-moon rites of Indian men 

The strangest form did take. 
And there, with superstitious dread, 

Atoning" deeds were done — 
The gods appeased or glorified 

Before the rise of sun. 

There, over on the silver bay. 

So peaceful-like and still. 
Loon Island, jutting from the lake. 

Gave home to whip-poor-will; 
And only chief in feathered dress, 

Or amuletted brave, 
Would dare to touch the rounding shore, 

And hope his soul to save. 

And in the glisten of the moon. 

Strange sights regaled the eye. 
As mystic priest, in mask and horn. 

Sent curling smoke on high; 
And while he bent before the fire. 

His shadow on the trees. 
The tribesmen on the distant land 

Invoked on bended knees. 



143 



STOEIES IN SONG. 

**0, Pennacooks! Once mighty men, 

And countless as the leaves! 
The tread of paleface breaks the twigs, 

His sword of rapine cleaves. 
■Rise up and claim thy father's land! 

Eebuke the strangers' greed! 
The white man softly takes thy hand. 

And still thy spirits bleed. 

"Oh, Pennacooks! I give a sign! 

The spirit moves my words; 
I see thy wigwam moving west 

Before the flight of birds. 
And if I live by breaking dawn, 

My tongue has idly spoken, 
And if my spirit tlies beyond, 

Thy camps will soon be broken." 

And on the morn, when rays of sun 

Had kissed the glassy lake, 
A stately chief in gorgeous craft. 

Loon Island's shore did make; 
And there beside the dying fire. 

The midnight iDriest reclined, 
His visage cold in clasp of death. 

And gone the j)rophet's mind. 
****** 

Oh, sighing winds that listless blow 
Through forests' green confines, 

Come! Whisper to our waiting souls 
The secrets of the pines. 

144 



THE SHIPWRECK — A BALLAD. 

Oh, where have gone the Pennacooks 
Who roamed the slojDing hills, 

And gilded o'er the silver lakes, 
And mocked the whiiD-xDOor-wills? 

Gone! Like mist before the moon! 

Vanquished like the snov^s 
That melt before the spring-time sun, 

When sweet arbutus grows. 
But still Loon Island's jutting rocks 

Most j)lainl3^ mark the place 
Where painted priest foretold the woe 

Of bravest Indian race. 



The Shipwreck — A Ballad, 

Through mist and storm and far away 

In a land across the sea, 
There dwelt a maid in humble home, 

With soul of high degree. 
Her softened locks, and beaming eyes, 

And lips like honey sweet, 
Were linked with heart that warmly throbbed 

With love at every beat. 

And o'er the hills had many moons 

Their silvery rays bestowed, 
Since he who claimed the maiden's heart 

Had o'er the ocean rode. 



145 



STOEIES IN SOjSTG. 

He sailed away to Freedom's land, 

Ambition in his breast, 
And, parting-, bade the lassie come 

Whene'er he made request. 

The skies were blue, and calmest seas 

Were kissed by morning- sun, 
When from the little harbor sailed 

The ship at boom of g-un. 
And on the beach the maiden stood 

And waved the sad g-ood-byes — 
Her heart was overflowing-, and 

The dew was in her ej^es. 

Away, away, the graceful ship 

Went skimming o'er the main. 
Until one day the heavens burst — 

The storm none could restrain. 
No fiercer gale had sailors met; 

The ship was on her ends. 
And quickly to her doom she went. 

As the bow the arrow sends. 

Above the shriek of driving storm 

The sailors' cries were heard. 
Imploring Him to guide the helm. 

Whose Hand protects the bird. 
But ere another hour had passed 

The crash of timbers told 
That death had come with icy grasp 

To claim the sailors bold. 



146 



THE SHIPWRECK — A BALLAD. 

And all who sailed the g-allant ship 

Found graves on savage shores, 
And none w-as left to tell the tale — 

No sound but breaker's roars. 
And he who sailed for Freedom's land, 

Ambition in his breast, 
Found peace beyond the raging main — 

'Twas called "Eternal Rest!" 



'Through mist and storm and far away, 

In a land across the sea, 
There dw^ells a maid in humble home. 

With soul of high degree. 
Her softened locks are gray and thin, 

And lips are firm compressed; 
The heart that once so w^armly throbbed 

Has passed through sorrow's test. 

And o'er the hills have many moons 

Their rays of silver throw^n, 
Since he who claimed the maiden's heart 

Sailed off to distant bourne. 
And many years the loyal lass 

Has gazed across the sea, 
But ne'er again will she behold 

Her sailor bold and free. 



147 



STORIES IN SONG. 



The Glory of the West* 

The graceful Uncanoonucs, 
The glory of the west, 

How oft the lays 

Of savage days 
Have echoed o'er your crest! 

Majestic Passaconnaway, 
The noblest of them all, 

Would watch the light 

Of beacon bright 
That meant the battle call. 

Pointed arrows, sharp and true, 
Have whistled on your slopes, 

And taunting tribes 

With cruel gibes 
Destroyed the stranger's hopes. 

Sleeps w^ell the valiant redman; 
He's joined the spirit band! 

He'll no more balk 

With tomahawk 
The white man's greed for land. 

And the graceful Uncanoonucs, 
The glory of the west. 

Will no more hear 

The warring cheer 
That moved the savage breast. 

148 



THE EDi;CATED BLACKSMITH. 



The Educated Blacksmith* 

Down the road beneath the elms, and just 
beyond the bars, 

The blacksmith sends the tlying sparks a-f ail- 
ing like the stars. 

How the heated metal sizzled, as we trotted by 
the door, 

And oft we stopped to listen, just to hear the 
bellows roar. 

And sage remarks he used to drop, while 

bending to the iron. 
For in politics the blacksmith w^as as brave as 

any lion. 
He knew just whj^ the president had signed or 

didn't sign 
The bills that came before him, and why he 

drew the line. 

And while he stooi>ed to pare the corns of 

Deacon Johnson's horse, 
He talked religion by the yard without the least 

remorse. 
He criticised the preacher man, because the 

parson said 
We couldn't get to heaven till we'd sought the 

fountain head. 



149 



STORIES IN SdNG. 

What he didn't know about the octopus of rum 
Wasn't worth a pinch between your finger and 

your thumb. 
When the country bumjokin said 'twas wrong to 

drink a thing, 
The blacksmith laid his hammer down, and 

clipped the bumi)kin's wing. 

And when the s^Darks were showering around 

the anvil base, 
He'd lecture on society — contempt was on his 

face; 
The way he trimmed aristocrats and hoed the 

dandies down. 
Evoked the admiration of the people of the 

town. 

Alas! One day a little squirt, with glasses on 

his nose, 
Loitered 'round the grimy shox^ and watched 

the sturdy blows; 
And when the blacksmith wiped his brow and 

saw the stranger there. 
He opened up an argument, unmindful of a 

snare. 

For such a chance the little man was very much 

elated. 
For in the days of college life, for prizes he'd 

debated. 



150 



THE EDUCATED BLACKSMITH. 

He met the blacksmith fair and square, and won 

at every turn; 
'Twas then the son of Yulcan found he'd very 

much to learn. 

The blacksmith took his apron off, and vowed 

that he'd been beat. 
And up and down the villag'e spread the news 

of his defeat; 
And oft it is when oracles have fallen from 

their perch, 
That those who took the wisdom in, defy your 

earnest search. 

Down the road beneath the elms, beyond the 

pair of bars. 
No more you'll find the flying sparks a-falling 

like the stars. 
The wind is shrilly whistling and the shop's 

gone up the flume. 
And the blacksmith man's a-sleeping in the 

silence of the tomb. 



151 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



THE JASMINE. 



The Jasmine* 

[A Manchester lady recently received a letter from a friend 
in the South, describing the great luxuriance of the golden 
jasmine, which, in certain sections, completely smothers the 
swamps, woods, and hedgerow. The jasmine vine in its na- 
tive element is very beautiful, and has a subtly sweet odor.] 

Thou art wanton! Thou art wilful! 

Thou art curving like a bell. 
See the jasmine tassels hanging- 

In the fragrant southern dell. 
Like the gold of dying day, 

As the sun is sinking low, 
Is the lovely, gentle jasmine. 

As the summer zephj^rs blow. 

Running wild along the edges 

Of the far-away lagoon. 
In the lonely woods and sloping, 

Thou art nature's fairest boon. 
Unobtrusive, yet convincing, 

Is the odor of the bower, 
Where the yellow of the jasmine 

Is the feast of idle hour. 

And the blooms are ever graceful, 

As they tremble in the breeze, 
And the blossom gives the nectar 

For the southern winter bees. 
Thou art climbing like the smilax, 

O'er the saplings and the pines; 
There is nothing like the jasmine. 

And its wildly climbing vines. 
155 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Christmas Bells* 

[Anthem written at Christmas-tide, 1897, and published in "The 
Manchester Union," to music composed by Walter U. Lewis.] 

Bright the Star of Bethlehem 

Glistens o'er the land, 
Leading- on the princes fair 

O'er the desert sand. 
Lowly in the mang-er bed, 

Babe of Holy Name 
Smiles the sweetest welcome to 

The king's of worldlj^ fame. 

Eefbain — Chimes are giadly ringing-! 

Soft the voices! 

Heart rejoices! 
Peace the dawn is bringing. 

Sweet the laj 

Of Christmas day — 
Hear the angels singing! 

Glorious Sun of Righteousness 

Lights us on the way; 
Christ has come to rule mankind; 

Praise Him while ye may. 
Heed the bells that chiming tell 
Christmas day is here! 
'■ Angels join in holy song — 

! Their Gracious Lord revere. 



156 



FOREBODIXGS. 

Eefeain — Chimes are gladly ringing! 

Soft the voices! 

Heart rejoices! 
Peace the dawn is bringing-. 

Sweet the lay 

Of Christmas day — 
Hear the angels singing! 



Forebodings* 

The budding trees are here, 

Likewise the crocus. 
We have no need to fear 

Spring-'s hocus i)ocus. 
Balmy soon will be the air, 

Sweet-perfumed ; 
Warmer than beyond compare, 

Heat-consumed. 
Up and down the country, too, 

Bug's and flies 
Make your language somewhat blue, 

We should surmise. 
All the money saved with care 

In winter days, 
You will throw it here and there 

In lots of ways. 
When drowsy fall once more is here, 

With painted leaf, 
Thin the purse will be, we fear. 

Oh, time of grief! 

157 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



Summer's Coming:* 

Summer's coming', sure as fate, 

Birds and g'rass and flowers, 
Sticky days and sultry nig-hts. 

And softly falling- showers. 
Winter seems eternal like; 

The ice keeps hanging on; 
Just the same, it's got to g'o, 

As sure as you are born. 

Soon we'll have the panama, 

Russet shoes and crash, 
Buzzing bugs and bicj'cles, 

And golfing balderdash. 
Up will go the mercury, 

Dust will fill the streets. 
Then we'll long for snow again, 

And winter's cold retreats. 

Summer's coming, sure as fate, 

Flies and 'skeeters, too; 
We'll have to have the heated term 

As soon as winter's through. 
After all, we ought to feel 

That winter's not so bad, 
And wishing for the summer time 

Is just the same old fad. 

158 



BROWN AND GOLD. 



Brown and Gold. 

Brown and gold, the autumn lig^hts 

Are taken bj^ the trees; 
The finest of the yearly sights 

Is nature's tinted frieze. 

A little storj' once was told 
By soft-eyed Indian maid, 

Of how the prettj^ brown and gold 
Were on the foliage laid. 

All summer long the sun had tried 
To make the transformation, 

For green the sun could not abide 
Without much perturbation. 

'Twas only on a certain day 
Old Sol could end the wrangle, 

And onlj^ when the yellow ray 
Should take a certain angle. 

Somehow, it always happened so — 
(And this jon should remember!) 

The day the green was forced to go 
Was reckoned in September. 

And then the yellow autumn lights 

Pervaded all the trees 
And nowhere were there finer sights 

Than the brown and golden frieze. 

159 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



Sigfns of Fall. 

The fiend who asked with joy sublime: 

"Is it hot enough for you?" 
Is fig-uring- hard at the present time, 

With an overcoat in view. 
The cheese-cloth suit must take a rest. 

And the shirt of red-ink cast, 
And the jDolka-dotted velvet vest 

Is a thing- of the musty past. 

The clank of the ice tongs dieth out, 

The ice man counts his g"old; 
The coal rolls doAvn the tin-pan spout. 

And the iDlumber g-roweth bold. 
The flies are turning up their toes. 

The screens w^ill soon come out, 
The football chap in fighting clothes 

Sets up a savage shout. 

With shorter days and longer nights 

The gas bill's on a tear; 
The farmer takes in all the sights 

At the same old country fair. 
The leaves are getting tender-like; 

They'll soon begin to fall. 
The eighteen ninety-seven bike 

Is not in the race at all. 



160 



SADDEE DAYS. 

The curtain's up, the show is on* 

The band begins to play; 
The minstrel smiles and jokes upon 

The topics of the day. 
All this and more is but to tell 

That autumn days are near, 
And some one's pulling at the bell 

That tolls o'er summer's bier. 



Sadder Days* 

You have heard them tell it often 

Of the sad November days, 
When the mind begins to soften 

And we're singing dismal lays. 
True, we find that in November 

It is neither warm nor cold, 
And if you'll but remember. 

It's the time you're feeling old. 

But sadder than November days 

Are these at present time, 
When snippy storms the senses phase 

And frigid is the clime. 
Zero is the fatal mark. 

And nipping is the breeze, 
And ice adorns the summer park — 

To live is but to freeze. 



161 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



New Year's Thougfhts* 

The old year melts aAvay and dies, 

And the new one takes its place. 
We hear the plaintive, distant cries 

Of the weakest in the race. 
Perhaps they started when the year, 

Now dying', was the brig-htest; 
Perhaps the weakest cry you hear 

Was then with joy the lightest. 

Thus it is, as years roll on. 

And plans are smoothly made. 
That ere the next new year is born, 

The dream becomes a shade. 
We think we see the shining- way 

To all that's g-ood in life — 
A few^ short months, perhaps a day, 

Will turn the peace to strife. 

We strugg-le on, and softly bless 

The moments that are g-olden, 
And in forgetting" stern decrees 

Our souls we thus embolden. 
And if we'd harbor just the thought 

Of seeking- better things. 
And count the bitter ones for naught, 

There'd be the fewer stings. 



162 



he's coming. 



He's Comm§:« 

The sprig-htly man will soon be here 

With wheels of ninety-eight; 
He'll tell yon all about the gear 

And other makes berate. 
He'll make j^ou think you never had 

A wheel that rode so well, 
And all the others must be bad — 

Too bad for him to tell. 

He'll stick a knife into the tires 

To show they cannot leak; 
Bend, and twist, and pound the wires 

A thousand times a week. 
He'll let you see some funnj^ scheme 

To stop the wheel from running, 
And talk and talk a steady stream 

Of other things more cunning. 

Fare ye well! Old Ninety-seven, 

For which we paid a hundred; 
We cannot see how under heaven 

We boug'ht you and so blundered. 
They told us when we took you in, 

You couldn't be outclassed. 
We thought the statement rather thin- 

Your iisefulness has passed. 



163 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Whistling Winds* 

The whistling- winds! 

Oh, what do they say, 
As they're singing their sad refrain? 

List to the sound, 

As, whisking around. 
The breezes are howling their strain. 

Fresh from the sea. 
Perhaps they are telling 

Of mariners strapped to the mast, 
Awaiting the dawn, 
With hope nearly gone. 

With death in the ice-laden blast. 

How do we knoAv? 

These cyclonic winds 
May have harried the burning sands, 

And helped to its doom 

Old Ptolemy's tomb. 
On the j)lains of the iiyramid lands. 

It wouldn't be strange 

If the blizzards that blow 
And give us a shiver or two. 

May have tenderly kissed 

The ebony wrist 
Of a maid in the Timbuctoo. 



164 



AUTUMN TIME. 

The tranquil airs 

Of the soft-hued night 
In the land of the g-ondolier, 

Have changed a bit 

In their rapid flit 
To this frozen-up hemisphere. 

The whistling" winds! 

No matter their course, 
Are slamming and banging still, 

And giving the snow 

A toss and a throw 
And shrieking a frigid trill. 



Autumn Time* 

The moonlig'ht rippled 
Through the trees, 

The leaves were turning gold. 
And lovers walked 
And sweetly talked 

Of the memories of old. 

The autumn breeze 

Its perfume sent 
To make the night sublime, 

And burning vows 

Did love arouse — 
The hour was Cupid's time. 

165 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

The shadow cast 

By stately pine 
Across the needles lay; 

All was still 

But the whip-poor-will, 
Who sang- in his dismal way. 

And waters dashed 

O'er mossy stones 
As the river rolled along*; 

The pledge was given 

And hearts were riven, 
To the sound of the cricket's song. 

As over again 

They walk the path 
That follows the winding stream, 

The lonely trill 

Of the whip-poor-will 
Brings back the autumn dream. 



Beneath the Ice* 

Oh, where are the flowers that blossom in 

spring, 
To whose velvet petals sweet fragrances cling? 
Curled up in a ball, 'neath the ice and the snow, 
The flowers are waiting for winter to go. 
Then gorgeous in glory — in color aflame, 
They'll greet you in May-time — their perfume 

the same. 

166 



THE BUMBLEBEE. 



The Bumblebee. 

The sweetest song* in summer time 

Is heard in idle hours; 
'Tis the music of the bumblebee 

Cavorting o'er the flowers. 
He gathers up the nectarine. 

And with it flies away — 
A pirate is the busy bee, 

Who bumbles all the daj'. 

Your garden is the one, perhaps. 

Where daffodils and roses 
Invite this buzzing autocrat 

To rob your laden posies. 
It matters not a bit to him 

Whatever you may say — 
A pirate is the busj' bee, 

Who bumbles all the day. 

Oh, where is now this lively chap, 

In time of snow and ice. 
When roses and the daffodil 

Are worth a pretty price? 
He's tiling up his stinger end, 

And planning for the fray— 
A pirate is the busy bee, 

W^ho bumbles all the day. 

167 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Robin Fiend ♦ 

Sing ho! The all-absorbing man, 

Who preaches on the weather, 
Expects to see the robin soon, 

And birds of kindred feather. 
His eagle eye is taking in 

The meadow at a glance; 
He'll tell yon when the robin comes, 

With smile of broad expanse. 

And shortly, with his ulster on — 

His collar 'round his ears, 
He'll come upon you sudden-like, 

Like all these weather seers. 
He'll tell 3^ou that he's seen the bird- 

The harbinger of spring, — 
That he was first to see him come, 

The robin on the wing. 

And soon a tale in type is told; 

His legend greets the sight; 
You'll find his name above them all, 

Made famous in a night. 
And science by her mystic arts 

Has yet to find a cure 
For him who sees the robin first — 

And him we must endure. 



168 



THE JOVIAL JUNKMAN. 



The Jovial Junkman* 

The jovial junkman's cheery smile 

Lights lip his honest face: 
He's cutting' coupons carefully, 

In this particular case. 
March and Aj)ril are to him 

When wealth and ease abide; 
His men are busy, gathering- in 

The diaries cast aside. 

"Fie! Fie!" The merry junkman said, 

"I know a thing or two; 
On human nature let me trade 

And gold my x^ath will strew." 
The junkman walked about the shop, 

His chest was filled with j)ride, 
His storeroom overflowing with 

The diaries cast aside. 

The junkman owned a block or two 

And rode behind a span; 
He went to Euroj)e every year — 

His coin in rivers ran. 
"Self-made was he!" the i^apers said. 

When the junkman up and died; 
But after all his pile was made 

From the diaries cast aside. 



169 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



Thanksgivingf Time* 

Homeward speeding, o'er the land, 

Come father, son, and brother, 
Eejoicing- that once more they meet 

Fond sister and the mother. 
Thanksgiving-'s here, and praise is due 

To Him who grants the day; 
The flames within the ehimnej^-pieee 

Now sing- a merry lay. 

And in the oven, toasting- brown, 

The turkey groans and flutters. 
For well he knows his time has come — 

No wonder that he sputters. 
Eight beside him, flaky white. 

The chicken pie is steaming-; 
As mother tries the creamy crust, 

Tommy's eyes are gleaming. 

So g'ather 'round the festive board; 

'Tis time to start the feast — 
Nell and Susan, Johnnie, too, 

And Tommy's not the least. 
Bring on the pudding, piping hot, 

With x^lums in great array; 
Dish out the gravy quickly now. 

And pass your plate this way. 



170 



JANUARY 1. 

And pumpkin pie, so g-olden brown, 

So luscious-like and slick, 
And mother's just the only one 

Who can do the little trick. 
Grandpa takes his seat in time 

To fill the polished glasses 
With cider from the cellar bin — 

'Tis sweeter than molasses. 

Hear the din the baby makes! 

He knows a thing" or two. 
Thanksgiving means a lot to him. 

No matter what you do. 
Let all your faces brightly shine, 

Be cheerful while you may, 
And make the feast a royal one 

On this Thanksgiving Day. 



January i* 

The 3'outh will get his diary out 
To scribble all he knows, 

And strive his best to write about 
His hapj)iness and woes. 

The fit will last a week or so — 
He'll write his final line, 

And not resume another throe 
Till eighteen ninety-nine. 



171 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Tea in the Jug. 

The heated sun of old July 

Will soon be streaming- down; 
The farmer man will wield the scythe 

With freckled hands and brown. 
All throng-h the livelong summer day 

The farmer man will plug- — 
And down in the bushes, shaded well, 

There's tea in the g-allon jug-. 

The g-rass will lie in even row^s 

Along- the sizzling- field. 
And fragrance sweet as any rose 

The new-mown hay will yield. 
When the farmer's throat is somewhat parched, 

And yearns for cooling- slug, 
He makes a dive for the shady bush — 

For the tea in the gallon jug. 

Swishety-swish! One almost hears 

The whetstone 'gainst the blade; 
The tox)S of clover soon will fall, 

When July fodder's made. 
The farmer man will mop his brow 

And give his sleeves a tug — 
He'll not forget the loving swig 

Of the tea in the gallon jug. 



172 



THE BUZZING BUG. 

The July sun may stream away 

And drive the cows to shade, 
And scorch a bit the farmer man 

Who wields the trusty blade. 
But little he'll care for burning ray 

As long- as he thinks to lug 
To meadows fair the timelj^ draught 

Of the tea in the gallon jug". 



The Buzzing Bug* 

The June bug's fixing up his wings, 

And oiling- his creaking joints; 
He's patching up his brown-hued shell 

And sharp are his horn}^ points. 
When merrilj^ peep the wall-eyed frogs, 

In the 3'oung and tender night, 
This horny bug will fly within. 

And buzz around the light. 

Oh, where has this antlered insect been 

In the nights of ice and snow? 
A g-rub was he when the north wind blew 

And the cold was ten below. 
But soon will this noisy, ugly bug 

Come out in his raiment fine — 
W^hen pussy-willows have dropped away. 

And the leaves come out on the vine. 



173 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Summer Day« 

Oh, give us the song' of the blue jay bird 

And the chirp of the chick-a-dee, 
The hymn of the frog- in the bulrush pool, 

And the buzz of the bumblebee. 
For nothing-'s so nice as the swishety-swish 

Of the zephyrs in daisy fields. 
Or the nostrils filled with the 'livening' scent 

Of the essence the g-rapevine yields. 

Oh, g-ive us ag-ain the humming-bird. 

As he hovers o'er opened flowers, 
And the song of the cricket at eventime. 

In his cheering of shadow hours. 
And the drippety-drip of the sunshine shower 

Is cooling to fevered brain. 
Oh, give us the time of the summer day. 

And the stroll in the shadv lane. 



The June Bug: Resteth^ 

The June bug rustles his wings 
And sings: 

"Heigho! To the maiden fair!" 
He whirls 'round the light. 
And stops in his flight, 

With his feet in my little girl's hair! 



174 



THE TEPID DAY. 



The Tepid Day, 



The tepid swash of yesterday 

Made matters worse. 
No heat abatement came therefromi; 
The farmer did not want that storm 

His crops to nurse. 

The raindrops fell without reserve 

On weak humanity. 
The leaky clouds could not withstand 
The sun that swelled our own hat band 

And caused profanity. 

The dude with crash and colored shirt 

Was to be pitied. 
The girl who sported filmy lace 
Wore consternation on her face 

As she flitted. 

Humid, sticky, — million flies! 

What a day! 
Was there no comfort anywhere 
In breathing furnace-heated air? 

We should say nay! 



175 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Dame of Ninety-ei§:ht* 

Dame Fashion has decreed this year — - 

Dear woman must obey — 
That big- balloons no more appear — 

Tig'ht sleeves have come to stay. 

And Paris styles are upside down, 
The queerest e'er were seen — 

Those monstrous hats have come to town, 
In yellcw, red, and green. 

The waj^ the dears must wear them now 

Is o'er the side to flop — 
So far indeed they don't allow 

A ribbon on the top. 

No circus man, ^vith finest nerve, 

Could balance them at all, 
And if he could, he'd then deserve 

The biggest pay on call. 

Another thing- the eye will greet 

Will be the queerest g-own — 
Which runs from chin to dainty feet 

In a panel up and down. 



176 



SPEING IS HERE. 

Two buttons hitch the thing' at top, 
Two buttons down below — 

These buttons form the latest crop 
Of the big'g'est kind that gro"w. 

In picking- out her hosiery, 

The Dame of Ninety-eight 
Will find but little jDoetry 

In keeping" up to date. 

Of j)laids and stripes, and little checks. 

And crocks of fine design, 
With polka-dots and snowy flecks — 

The styles are superfine. 

Imbued in dainty mystery, 

The sweetest of the fair. 
Will revel in her lingerie 

Of silks and laces rare. 

Such a cinch no lady had 

In old Parisian state, 
That's seen in nearly every fad 

Of the Dame of Ninety-eight. 



Spring is Here* 

Trees are budding, yellow-green^ 
And gentle spring is here. 
The June bug sings 
And spreads his wings — 
He's getting into gear. 

177 



iSOXGS -OF THE SEASONS. 



The Bug:s are Here* 

The farmer's crops are on the wane; 

The bugs have come to staj^ 
These horny, antlered little things 

Are working all the day. 

They're striped bugs, with many legs, 
Some red and gold all over, 

And some have sixteen longing eyes, 
And dote on fields of clover. 

And there's the bug with sets of teeth 
To rip things. well asunder; 

He chews the leaves of every plant. 
And eats like very thunder. 

Every man has dismal days — 
The farmer's no excefition. 

; Because the bugs are hard at work 
He's driven to distraction. 



If This Be June. 

If this be June, give us no more 
Of poet's song of roses. 

For all we've had is what is bad 
For colds in heads and noses. 

178 



SING, JUANITO. 



Strawberries. 

Strawberries j)rinie in suminer time, 

Red as the crimson wine, 
A juicy treat and taste as sweet, 

As friTit from the winding vine. 

All hail to the day in balmy June 
When butterflies spread their wings; 

There will we stay in close attune 

With the joy that the strawberry brings. 

In days of ice and lack of spice, 

The maid with rosy cheeks 
Invokes the dream of berries and cream, 

And she blushes as she speaks. 

So sing to the maid of winter time, 
The queen of the frigid zone; 

The strawberries fade in icy clime 
In the warmth of my beauty's throne. 



Singf^ Juanito* 

Radiant summer, angel queen! 
Time of fragrant rose, and sheen! 

Sing, Juanito! 
Buzz, and jump, with sharpened bill! 
Working while all else is still! 

Bite, Mosquito! 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 



The Sun Beats Down* 

The sun beats down 

On all the town, 

And sizzles on the XDlains. 

We rave and tear 

For breezy air, 

And board the seashore trains. 

Straw hats are here, 

And foaming" beer. 

Likewise pink lemonade; 

And now we yearn 

For cash to burn 

On the seashore's summer maid. 

July's Here* 

July's here! 

Let's drojD a tear 
O'er memories of June roses, 

Whose petals dropped 

Whene'er we stopped 
To gather fragrant posies. 

July's here! 

The Fourth is near! 
We'll soon forget the roses, 

In blowing horns 

When daylight dawns, 
And raising Holy Moses! 

180 



THE ARBUTUS. 



They Are Comingf* 

Blossoms, blossoms everywhere! 
There'll be blossoms in the air! 
Snowy petals on the trees, 
Fragrance wafted by the breeze-— 
By the breeze! 

By the breeze! 

Birds will sing- throug-hout the day, 
Telling" us they've come to stay; 
These to us a message bring. 
Thou art coming, lovely spring — 
Lovely sx3ring! 
Lovely spring! 



The Arbutus* 

Down the sides of shady dells 

Early spring is fragrant made, 
By the blossoms sweetly scented 

Of the vines along the glade. 
Oh, Arbutus! Soft appealing 

To the sorrow-laden wind, 
Bringing thoughts of tropic summer- 

Of the joys we'd like to find. 



181 



SONGS OF WAR. 



OLD GLORY. 



Old Glory* 

O'er land and sea the Stars and Stripes, 

The emblem of the free, 
Are welcomed bj^ the shackled slave, 

Wherever he may be. 
The flag" that curls in tropic breeze, 

The grandest sight to all, 
Is waving that the tyrant's throne 

Maj' totter to its fall. 

And gleams the sword beneath the flag. 

That strikes for helpless ones, 
And on to battle thousands move 

To free fair Cuba's sons. 
No matter where the colors wave. 

No matter when the time. 
They float for rights to every man, 

In every zone and clime. 

So, up and cheer the flaming red, 

The white and bonnj^ blue — 
The flag that cruel foemen hate — 

The emblem of the true. 
And as the Stars and Stripes unfurl, 

They tell the sweetest story 
Of freedom, life, and equal rights 

Made surer by Old Glory. 



185 



SONGS OF WAR. 



The Maine Disaster* 

Across the dingy, murky flood 

Havana's lights were g'leaming. 
On board the noble battleship 

The sailors brave were dreaming. 
The guards who paced the upper deck 

Saw naught but peaceful seas, 
And o'er their heads the Stars and Stripes 

Were flaunting in the breeze. 
******* 

A flash! A roar! Volcanoes free! 

The gates of hell were shaken; 
Fire belched forth in seething streams, 

And souls from earth were taken. 
Three hundred patriotic hearts 

Were stilled in awful death — 
The pride of all the country's fleet 

Demolished in a breath! 
******* 
Woe to Sj)ain, if treachery 

Has done this frightful deed! 
She'll pay the debt with interest; 

Her fate will be decreed. 
For every drop of blood that stained 

The shark-infested water, 
Spain will feel the penalty 

And know the jiain of slaughter. 

186 



THE SITBDUED PATEIOT. 

We breathe for those who passed away 

A benison of rest, 
And know that they have found at last 

The harbor of the blest. 
They died for country just as sure 

As those in battle's feud — 
A nation mourns her honored dead, 

And gives her gratitude. 



The Subdued Patriots 

A year ago he loudly howled 

That Cuba might be free; 
He longed to take a hand himself 

In eager jamboree. 
He'd leave his home and fireside, 

His dearest friends and all, 
He chafed for oi^portunity 

To answer duty's call. 

But now that war is really on 

And Cuba may be free, 
You'll find our friend in Montreal, 

As jDcaceful as can be. 
Urgent business called him there; 

He had to go, you know; 
He moved his blazing fireside 

A week or so ago. 

187 



SONGS OF WAR. 



What Would He Say? 

If a ghost should crawl to the tip of beam 
Of the wreck that lies in Havana's stream— 

What would old Weyler say? 
If the ghost should part his matted hair, 
And then with a frozen, deathly stare, 
Ask the butcher what he did there — 

What would old Weyler say? 

And then, again, if the Spanish scows 
Should run up against the Yankee's bows — 

What would old Weyler say? 
And the Yankee boys should rip and tear, 
Sending the shot through the smoky air, 
Smashing the Spaniards here and there — 

What would old Weyler say? 

Supposing, too, that General Lee 
Should hel^D to make those Cubans free — 

What would old Weyler say? 
If Lee should sit in the palace chair, 
And, gazing out on Havana square, 
Smile as he sees Old Glory there — 

What w^ould old Wej^ler say? 



188 



WHAT WOULD HE SAY? 

If a score or two of Gomez' men 
Should open the gates of Morro's pen — 

What would old Weyler say? 
Taking- the guards, desiDite their squalls, 
Throwing' them over the bolstered w^alls. 
Breaking them up like saw^lust dolls — 

What would old Weyler saj^? 

And what if a cruising boat or two 
Should hustle across the ocean blue — 

What would old Weyler say? 
And batter along the Spanish coast. 
Living a while on Spanish toast, 
And taking a nibble of Spianish roast — 

What would old Wej'ler say? 

And then when the snarling' fuss is o'er. 
And the Lone Star flag is over the door — 

What will old Weyler say? 
And the blazing torch is out at last. 
And Spanish rule is a thing of the past, 
And Cuba's freedom's firm and fast — 

What will old Weyler say? 



SONGS OF WAR. 



The Buena Ventura* 

He sat upon a shingle bunch, 

His pipe was in his hand; 
The Spaniard little dreamed that war 

Had struck his native land. 
And while the Buena Ventura 

Was speeding o'er the crest, 
A cruiser came along and put 

The Spanish shix3 to rest. 

He sat upon a shingle bunch, 

On lumber-laden ship; 
The cruiser fired a bounding ball 

To interrupt the trip. 
The Spaniard dropx^ed his stubby pipe, 

And rubbed his blinking e3''es. 
"Oh, ho!" The Spanish sailor said, 

"We're taken by surprise!" 

He sat upon a shingle bunch, 

On Spanish decks was he; 
Along the cruiser's whaleboat came; 

No longer was he free. 
They towed the ship to Florida, 

And tied her to the dock. 
"Oh, ho!" The Spanish sailor said, 

"They gave us quite a shock!" 



190 



HAVANA BAY. 



Havana Bay* 

Oh, the moon is rising o'er Havana bay, 

And the waves are splasliing- up against the 
quays. 
See, the lights along the shore begin to play, 

And the sighs of Cuba float upon the breeze. 
But the stillest are the waters over there, 

"Where sleeping sailors passed away from life, 
And no more will thej^ receive the tender care 

Of the mourning mother, sister, and the wife. 

Oh, the moon is rising o'er Havana bay. 

And the murky waters cover those who died. 
Though falling not while fighting in the fray, 
They were bravest for the dangers they 
defied. 
And although we'll never see them any more, ' 
We shall place the ivy wreath upon the grave, 
And remember what they did and what thej^ 
bore — 
They were heroes and the bravest of the 
brave. 



191 



SOXGS OF WAE. 



The Farmer on Deck* 

Needn't slice no more of 'taters, 

Not ez fer ez I'm consarned, 
Fer, Letitia, I'm a-goin' 

Ter the war, or I'll be darned. 
There are folks who know it all, 

Who think us farmers slow. 
An' who believe, Letitia, dear, 

Thet we're afraid ter g-o. 

An' so ternight I'm goin' ter milk 

Once more them Jersey cows. 
An' then, Letitia, some one else 

Can work beneath the mows. 
Fer jes' ez sure ez grass is green, 

An' the bloom is on the trees, 
I'm goin' ter take this homespun off, 

An' sail the Cubian seas. 

The only fun I've seen around 

The village streets fer years 
Is when old Darby tried ter j^oke 

Two bran' new kickin' steers. 
But now, Letitia, cast your eye 

Along the city papers; 
You'll read about some lively work, 

An' Dewej'^ cuttin' capers. 



192 



THE WINDY CHAP, 

An' SO I think I'll take er turn 

Et sojer life awhile, 
An' show them chaps with gilded braid 

Er bit of farmer's stj'le. 
I'm goin' ter join the town brigade, 

An' sling my trusty gun, 
An' show them Spanish jumj)in' jacks 

Er farmer's kind of fun. 



The Windy Chap* 

Ye'd think ter hear these galoots talk 

'Bout war and bluddy scrappin', 
Thet all ye hed ter do wuz walk 

To where the tight 'ud happin. 
An' smile an' show yer sojer clothes 

Ter those whose skelps yer ^vant, 
An' they'd forgit they wuz yer foes 

An' run at speedy jaunt. 

'Most allers them's ther chaps who howl 

'Bout fightin' ev'ry buddy 
Who never, with er fightin' jowl. 

Gave face ter matters bluddy. 
I've never seed er sojer yit 

Whose bin all through sech trouble, 
Ter lose his hed an' throw er fit 

Et ev'ry burnin' stubble. 



193 



SONGS OF WAR. 

An' ten ter one the chaps thet scream 

Ter see sum shootin' cum, 
■'Ud ne'er be missed, 'cej)t in er dream, 

By those they'd leave ter hum. 
An' those whose thoughts 'er serus-like, 

An' love ther wife an' child, 
IVhen forced ter raise an arm ter strike, 

Wunt strike er blow thet's wild. 

Don't mind ther chap whose buzzin' brain 

Sees daggers ev'ry minnit, 
Fer Avhen ther bombs an' bullets rain, 

This windmill wun't be in it. 
An' ef, bj^ chance, 'gin S^Dain we bump, 

Ther man whose done ther thinkin' 
Will bravely tight. Ther windy chump 

Ter Canada'll be slinkin'. 



The Soldier^s Sweetheart* 

Down the street. 

The tramping feet 
Keep pace to squeaking fife. 

The flag unfurled, 

By breezes curled, 
Will float above the strife. 

And rousing cheers 

Disperse the fears, 
As friends breathe out 'Adieu." 

Oh, raw recruit. 

In dusty suit. 
Your sweetheart weeps for you. 
191 



THE VOLUNTEER. 

And when asleep, 

In cannon's sweep, 
In land where fever reigns, 

You'll softly dream 

Of how things seem 
Way back in country lanes. 

When letters sweet, 

With love replete. 
Go down to Boys in Blue, 

They'll tell of tears 

And lonely fears, 
When sweethearts weep for you. 



The Volunteer* 

Head up! 

Shoulders squared 
And martial tread! 

To the war 

He's gone, 

'Midst flying lead. 

Eyes right! 

Flag unfurled 

And prancing steed! 

Braving shot, 
Yellow fever, 
And the centipede. 

195 



SONGS OF WAR. 

Leaves behind 

A mouriiing' maid, 

With breaking heart. 

In fateful war 
And carnag'e hot 
She has no part. 

All she does 

Is stay at home 

And sob awaj^ 

In Cuban land 
Her volunteer 
Is in the fray. 

Ten to one 

When back he comes 

His cheeks will sallow be. 

And limping- gait 
Will tell the tale 
Of Spanish cruelty. 

All the same, 

This grinding down 

Of Cubans on the isle 

Must cease. 

Or Uncle Sam 

Will Spanish grinders file. 

196 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 



METAMORPHOSIS. 



Metamorphosis ♦ 

And his mother didn't know him 

When she saw his picture there; 
He was candidate for something-; 

'Twas an aldermanic chair. 
With his physog in the paper, 

He was cutting- quite a dash; 
He would make the bosses quiver 

When he swung- his little lash. 

For his hair is smoothly plastered 

O'er his alabaster brow, 
And his nose is Bonapartic; 

He has brains you will allow. 
And his moustache is a beauty; 

Great refinement it denotes, 
For his picture in the paper 

Is the thing to bring- the votes. 

But, alas! This politician 

Is a weazened little man. 
And is lifting- foaming- schooners. 

And a-filling- uj) the can. 
His saloon's around the corner, 

And he cannot write his name. 
But his picture in the paper 

Is a corker just the same. 



199 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGjST. 



What the Robin Said* 

What do you think the robin said, 

As he twittered among the trees? 
Eight from the south the robin came, 

From the land of the balmy seas. 
''Surprised am I at the Ajiril snows, 

And the north winds blowing free, 
And food is as scarce as angel cake — 

Surprised am I," says he. 

^'Another thing I fail to see," 

Said the red-breast, robin bird, 
**Why temperance folks can't win a case 

Before a jury heard. 
But juries are funny things, indeed, 

And wiser than I may be; 
If they should refuse a nip or two — 

Surprised I'd be," says he. 

*'When I went away in days of fall," 

And the robin winked his eye, 
*"Twas solemn-like and quiet here; 

If it wasn't, I hope to die. 
But since I have been in the sunny south, 

There's many a buzzing bee 
In the bonnets of men, for f)ostmaster — 

Surprised I am!" says he. 



200 



OH, WHY IS IT/ 

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" and the robin hopped 

To the top of a picket fence. 
"I think I'll g-ather my baggag-e np. 

And get me a few miles hence, 
For all I can see are candidates. 

And they are too much for me; 
If I'm not away in a week or two, 

Surprised I'll be!" says he. 



Oh, Why Is It? 

Sometimes we see some funny things 

In local daily walks — 
'Tis then the hungry poet sings. 

Of funny things he talks. 

He wonders how the wily man 
Who wears the mayor's crown 

Can steer the ship and wiselj' jDlan 
For other jobs in town. 

Or how it is some aldermen 

Can hold an office clear, 
And carry on our business when 

They're living miles from here. 

Who can tell the thoughts that ran 
Through politicians' minds. 

When those at Washington began 
To break the tie that binds. 



201 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 

And queer it is to see the chaps, 

With faces lengthened out, 
Who sought reward in office snaps 

For stumping roundabout. 

Those who've paid the sewer fees, 

And lost the old receipt, 
Protest against the city's squeeze. 

In words we can't repeat. 

Can some one tell why rosy maids 
Who prize their reputations. 

Should watch and wait for actor blades, 
With throbbing palpitations? 

Or why is it that people throng 

To see the cheapest play, 
And spurn the show that comes along 

To higher art portray? 

And still we laugh and pass them by — 

And while the poet sings. 
We cannot keep from asking why 

There are such funny things. 



202 



SEASONABLE HINTS. 



Seasonable Hints, 

If we could have our gentle way in this the 

Christmas season, 
We'd give some handsome gifts away, or else 

we'd know the reason. 

The mayor wants the postal job — he's a lap 

ahead of Knox, 
And hopes to stamp the letters that we slip 

into the box. 

To Harring-ton, the debonair, whose taste is 

superfine, 
We'd give a contract, seal and all, with Sara, 

the divine. 

We'd seek to XDlease McFadden, too, a favor we'd 

be serving, 
In giving him the document that brings him 

Henry Irving. 

To Sulloway, who cries aloud for things beyond 

his reach. 
We'd give a berth for e\ery man who ever heard 

him preach. 



203 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 

The men who have the streets in charge we'd 

give a little token, — 
A tract that tells them how to mend the streets 

with stones unbroken. 

The boss who runs the water-works with auto- 
cratic sway, 

We'd give the earth, a fence or two, and a 
promise to obey. 

And Wiggin, with his gentle smile, we'd give a 

big balloon. 
And ticket that would take him to the craters 

of the moon. 

And not the least upon the list is he from 

Antrim town, 
We'd give him keys to all the bars, and let him 

shut them down. 

To Henrj' Fife, the portly one, the man of 
chowders hot. 

We'd give a gun, with which, 'tis said, his big- 
gest clams are shot. 

And just to please the gay "Mel" Hall, we'd give 

him all the coons 
That he could shoot in all the nights for forty- 

'leven moons. 



204 



HE HAS THE FLOOR. 

To Sheriff Neal of Auburn fame, we'd give a 

written scroll, 
Depicting- all the deeds he's done — 'twould make 

a pretty roll. 

Thus we'd sj)read the presents out (we spurn 

the proffered thanks). 
To every chap we'd give a j)i'ize — there'd be no 

Christmas blanks. 



He Has the Floor* 

Pull the throttle! Let 'er sliver! 

Take the tag from off the door! 
See the office holders shiver! 

Mayor Barry has the floor! 

And the cuckoo clock's a-raving% 
As it did in days of yore. 

And the palm is gently waving — 
Mayor Barry has the floor! 

In the storm he's never quailing, 
And unmindful of the roar. 

See the city ship's a-sailing! 
Mayor Barry has the floor! 

Piles of letters he is writing — 
Sort of diplomatic lore — 

No communication slighting. 
Mayor Barrj^ has the floor! 
205 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 

Will we get some decent ]3aying, 

That is solid to the core? 
For that's Avhat we are craving — 

Mayor Barry has the floor! 

Eained the honors in profusion, 
Still a smile he calmlj^ wore, 

For the honor's no delusion — 
Mayor Barry has the floor! 

In his sanctum he will greet you. 
And not treat you as a bore; 

He'll be more than glad to meet you- 
Maj^or Barry has the floor! 

In a way he's quite a rustler; 

He's alive in every pore; 
He has shown himself a hustler — 

Mayor Barry has the floor! 



A Hoodoo in the Air. 

There's disorder in the camj)s of the local Sairy 

Gamps; 
Eepublicans are very much oppressed; 
It is patent every minute that New Hampshire 

isn't in it, 
And neither is Mark Hanna in the West. 



206 



A HOODOO IN THE AIR. 

Since McKinley took the chair, he has whitened 
all the hair 

Of office-holders dwelling hereabouts, 

For they can't begin to see what is called pros- 
peri tee, 

And they're choking- with their agonizing 
doubts. 

And Sulloway has risen, like a shaggy-headed 

bison. 
And tries to keep his district in the swim. 
While he's busy raising Cain, he can see but 

little gain, 
And McKinley doesn't hear his little hymn. 

It is tough to be forgotten, and quite positively 

rotten, 
That not a soul can find us on the map. 
You can safely win the bet that the plums he 

was to get 
Are not falling in the politician's lap. 

When promises are made, it is sad to see them 

fade 
Like the mist that melts away before the sun. 
There's a hoodoo in the air, with his wooly 

bunch of hair, 
And Sulloway is loading up his gun. 



207 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 



Timely Valentines* 

[The following political verses accompanied a series of car- 
toons, drawn by John Edward Coffin, the versatile artist of the 
"Manchester Union." They were published February 14, 1898. J 



The Siren's Voice, 

[Mayor William C, Clarke.] 

Willie C, you'd happy be, 

With either dainty dame, 
If you could only now foretell 

The one who's worth the g-ame. 
So stick to both till something drops 

To help you in your choice; 
Unwise is he who always stops 

At every siren's voice. 

First and Only. 

[Henry M. Putney.] 

For you, the first McKinley man. 

The public drops a tear, 
To see you thus beneath the ban, 

And trudging in the rear. 
You and Percy figured well 

To give us each a plum. 
But why it is — we cannot tell — 

The plums have yet to come. 



208 



TIMELY VALENTINES. 

Cyrus the Blessed. 

[Congressman Cyrus A. Sulloway.] 

Oh, Cj^rus, with your flowing- locks, 

And free and airy ways, 
If you could hold the money box, 

You'd hallelujah raise. 
The gold and silver dollars, too. 

In mighty streams w^ould flow. 
And every one, no matter who. 

Would have some cash to blow. 

Ode to Percy. 
[Ex-Governqr P. C. Cheney .J 

How hard it is, my Percy, dear. 

That things you tried to get 
Are distant now — when once so near- 

'Tis tough, my boy, you bet! 
The oflice went across the line. 

Where greenest mountains growj 
We scribble on your valentine,, 

The words, "I told you so.'* 

The Antrim Statesman. 

[Ex-Governor David H. Goodell.} 

Oh, Antrim never saw the day 
When men of great renown 

Before went forth with least delay 
To put the liquor down. 



209 



SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. 

A smile lights up his countenance, 
Kig-ht merry does he feel, 

If only he bj^ lightning- glance 
Can make the rummies squeal. 

The Modern Alexander. 

[Ex-Governor Charles A. Busiel.] 

Alexander cried for more, 

When worlds were scarce to get, 
But you, kind sir, can see in store 

Much more to conquer yet. 
You've sharpened up the rusty ax. 

The octopus to chop — 
The B. & M. would feel the whacks 

If you could run the shops. 



The Candidates* 

They are coming! They are coming! 

They are twentj^ thousand strong; 
They have money and they'll spend it. 

As they send the boom along. 
They have barrels and they'll break 'em, 

'Twill be gold and silver, too. 
For it matters not the color; 

Any kind of cash will do. 



210 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE GRANITE STATE. 



The Granite State^ 

We love our noble Granite State, 

Its rivulets and rills, 
Its rushing, g'usliing-, silver streams, 

That flow beneath the mills. 
The mountains kiss the golden clouds, 

Their peaks are standing guard, 
And down below the valley winds — 

Dame Nature's boulevard. 

We breathe the sparkling air that gives 

Eefreshing" life to all; 
No other state in all the land 

Can give our own the call. 
And see! The lakes are shimmering 

Beneath the noonday sun; 
They stretch from curving shore to shore 

And skirt the wooded run. 

Oh, keep your Indie's coral strand, 

Your canons and your plains; 
Switzerland is not for us; 

'Tis nothing for your pains. 
Killarney's lakes mere puddles are, 

The Alps are in the shade — 
But let us keep the Granite State, 

The finest land that's made. 



213 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Declined with Thanks. 

The midnight oil he wasted, 

As he wrote his merry lay, 
And the poet in the garret 

Labored on till break of day. 
He was dashing off the verses, 

While the muse was over-bold, 
And the frost upon the windows 

Made him shiver with the cold. 

Twenty sheets or more he covered 

With his burning words of love — 
'Twas the poet's warmest handiwork, 

Inspired from above. 
When the day had fairly broken, 

With a twine of tender red, 
He tied the priceless pages, 

And to sell the poem sped. 

But, alas! The world's unfeeling. 

And the long-haired poet wept. 
For the critics said his verses 

Had propriety o'erstepped. 
And the tickets in life's lottery 

That day were virgin blanks; 
What the genius of the garret heard 

Was this: "Declined with thanks!" 



214 



NO PARTING THEEE. 



No Par tin §f There. 

Down the front he's always there; 

The big" bass drum is near; 
He smiles whene'er the dancer tries 

To kick the chandelier. 
His polished crown reflects the lig'ht. 

And shines with blinding- glare, 
And every one behind him notes 

There is no jiarting there. 

The missionary, sleek and fat. 

Went down to southern seas. 
And tried to win the cannibals 

With orthodoxal pleas. 
One day they placed the kettle on, 

For missionary fare; 
They didn't want to lose him and 

There was no parting there. 

He sat within his lonely cell. 

When some one handed in 
A little saw, with which he mig-ht 

His way to freedom win. 
He sawed with all his energy; 

'Twas his to do and dare, 
But through the bars he couldn't cut — 

There was no parting there. 



215 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

He wrote her many loving notes, 

And styled her "dove" and "pet," 
He longed to call her 'Vifey dear," 

On her his heart w^as set. 
But suddenly he changed his mind; 

She vengeance did declare; 
The court decreed, with damages, 

There'd be no parting there. 

The monkey climbed the waterspout, 

A cord tied to his belt; 
He tumbled o'er a cornice high — 

The tug his master felt. 
Dangling there, the monkey smiled. 

Though treading on the air; 
The cord Avas taut, and well he knew 

There'd be no parting there. 



Sun Glints. 

Said Peter Snooks to Mrs. Snooks: 
"I vow the sun's come out." 

Said Mrs. Snooks to Peter Snooks: 
"Of that there's not a doubt." 

Then Peter Snooks and INIrs. Snooks 

Forgot the rainy weather. 
And jumped aboard their shining wheels 

And scorched in finest feather. 



216 



AMOSKEAG. 



Amoskeag* 

Dear Amoskeag-! 
Little place of rest! 
Nestling by the placid stream 

Beneath the setting- sun, 
Blest the orchards, sweet they seem, 
Where youthful days were run. 

Fair Amoskeag! 
Place of shady trees! 
How cool the lanes in summer time. 

How broad the winding street, 
The fairest nook e'er sung in rhyme, 
The place of calm retreat. 

Old Amoskeag! 
The mem'ries you could tell! 
In days of Passaconnawaj^ 

The chief who ruled the hosts, 

'Twas there he held the iron sway. 

And made his warring boasts. 

True Amoskeag! 
Where virtue was the queen! 
How many look to thee in tears. 

And bless the olden ways, 
When happiness repulsed the fears 
That came in later days. 



21^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Peaceful Amoskeag! 
She lies there undisturbed! 
No spot conveys a sweeter thought 

Of old-time maidens fair, 
And in the shades were often sought 
The loves we liked to share. 



Trusted^ Busted* 

She was trusted! 

And she knew it! 
So she lived a happy life! 

And, disgusted. 

She did rue it — 
That she wasn't some one's wife. 

He was trusted! 
And he knew it! 
Manj^ bills occasioned strife. 
He was busted! 
They did do it— 
These collectors with a knife! 

They were flustered! 

And they knew it! 
When the maid became his wife! 

Both were trusted! 

Ne'er outgrew it! 
Trusted, busted— all thro' life. 

218 



THE LAND BEYOND THE SKY. 



The Land Beyond the Sky. 

You mustn't think I'm dreaming, 
Or my thoughts are flying- high — 

When I say there's gold a-gleaming 
In the land beyond the sky. 

See! The sun is soft reclining 
Down between the western hills, 

And the yellow shafts are shining 
While your soul with glory fills. 

And the clouds that once w^ere whiter 
Than the snow before the blast, 

Are in gold and silver brighter 
Than the ore in mountain fast. 

It looks as though 'twould easy be 
To step from off the sphere, 

And sail across the limpid sea 
That seems so very near. 

In the rounded hills and valleys 
Of the brilliant western sky, 

Not a yearning mortal dallies 
Till he finds the way to die. 



>10 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then his soul may be will wander 
In the realms of fairest light, 

Throug-h the valleys over yonder, 
That are g-ladsonie to the sight. 

And you mustn't think I'm dreaming. 
Or my thoughts are flying high — 

When I say there's gold a-gleaming 
In the land beyond the sky. 



Pine Needles. 

You maj tell us of the cactus 

And the palm in southern clime, 
Of the blooming orange blossom 

And the lemon and the lime. 
You may talk about your lilies 

Of the river Amazon, 
And the roses of the tropics 

That are sweetest in the morn. 

But w^e care not for the roses 

And the lemon and the lime, 
Or the swinging orange blossom 

Of the wild and torrid clime. 
We envj^ not the gardens, 

Or the creeping jasmine vine; 
We are richer in the fragrance 

Of the needles of the pine. 

220 



THE ACROBATIC CORNER. 



The Acrobatic Corner. 

Now is the time of the rub-a-dub-dub 

Of the orchestra's acrobat man, 
Who jumps from the drum to the tinkle-dum.- 
dee, 

And makes all the noise that he can. 

The rat-a-tat -tat of the Castanet 
Makes music when he takes a hand, 

The flappety-tlap of the swishety-swash 
Is much like the jig* on the sand. 

Once in a while there's a slammety-bang 
As the cymbals come down with a crash, 

And shutting" your eyes, 'tis easy to hear 
The snap of the thunder-storm's lash. 

And funny indeed is the rud-a-dud-dud 
Of the bald-headed musical moke. 

Who rattles out tunes on pieces of wood 
With many a lightning- stroke. 

No minstrel is quicker than he with the bones, 

And he dotes on the tambourine. 
He flippety-flops all over the lot — 

He's the boss of the whole machine. 



221 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To My PenciL 

If all the secrets that you know 

Were told for publication, 
And all the deeds you noted down 

Had really some foundation, 
How widely read your tracks would be — 

No novel more entrancing — 
How many'd tremble, turn and flee 

At your savag-e necromancing. 

Perhaps in burning words you've said 

A hundred things or more 
To just as many pretty maids 

Who ne'er were loved before. 
And then you've jotted down the notes 

Of life's regretful side, 
And did the best your jDoint could do 

To tender secrets hide. 

In treating of a spoiled career 

Great favors you have shown, 
By leaving out the crooked part 

And thus the faults condone. 
You've glided through some wretch's name, 

To save some other's honor — 
Refrained from writing out at all 

The deeds of some dark corner. 



222 



THE FUSSY OLD MAID. 

In fact you've been the greatest friend 

To rich, the poor, and humble. 
You wrote the song- that soothed distress 

Or made the haughty tremble. 
Though worn at last to tiny stub 

You still have iDower behind you; 
I'll keej) you in some chosen siDot 

Where quicklj' I can find you. 



The Fussy Old Maid. 

The poplar's straight, and so is she, 

In body and soul alike. 
And also, too, the path she walks 

Is a straight and narrow pike. 
She neither turns her haughty face 

From one to the other side; 
She's fussy in all she undertakes, 

A fact she won't deride. 

But what would the crooked planet be 

With the fussy old maid awaj'? 
Although she's straight as the ijojplar tree 

She's comforting in her way. 
Her heart's as warm as the summer sun, 

Her kindness just as wide — 
The fussy old maid's the girl for me, 

A fact I can't deride. 



223 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Awakeningfs* 

She walked a ducal palace, 

She wore a jewelled crown, 
She drove a span of horses, 

All around the town. 
O'er her silken corsage 

Gems were all agleam — 
But soon she was awakened, 

To find it but a dream. 

The sailor was a pirate. 

He shot across the main; 
Bigger'n Monte Christo, 

Riches were his bane. 
His vessel was the finest 

From masthead to the beam — 
But soon he was awakened 

To find it but a dream. 

She jumped upon the platform, 

Hurrahed for woman's rights, 
Called the man a tyrant. 

In oratory's flights. 
She pounded on the table; 

"Vengeance!" did she scream — 
But soon she was awakened 

To find it but a dream. 

224 



AWAKENIXGS. 

Soft the youthful lover 

Eeceived the answer "Yes," 
Pressed her to his bosom — 

The bonny, blue-eyed Bess. 
Her father g-ave his sanction. 

And blessings in a stream — 
But soon he was awakened 

To find it but a dream. 

She dwelt in crag-gy castles 

Along- the river Ehine; 
The sky was blue above her,, 

The air was superfine. 
All day she read a novel. 

With romance did it teem — 
But soon she was awakened 

To find it but a dream. 

And really when you've sifted 

An ordinary life — 
Treasured up the peaceful, 

Thrown away the strife — 
Of all the fleeting- moments 

Most painful you will deem — 
Are those when you're awakened 

To find it but a dream. 



225 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Two Snowflafces* 

Two little snowflakes, 

Crj'stals and all, 
Came floating- along 

Quite late in the fall. 

Said one little flake: 

"I've just been a-wondering 
If in showing up early 

We haven't been blundering. 

"We're the first to arrive 
In this dreary old town, 

And everything here 
Is dirty and brown." 

The other flake said: 

"Well, what do you care? 

Let's rest from our journey- 
It don't matter where. 

"Now that we've started, 

Together we'll stay, 
So don't borrow trouble 

Thus early, I pray," 

A warm little chimney 
Loomed up in the night, 

And the feather3^ visitors 
There did alight. 

226 



trouble's eecipe. 

You hardly would think it, 
In this frosty weather, 

Those two little flakes 
Were melted together. 

And here lies a lesson 
For friends who confide, 

Stick close to each other 
When troubles abide. 



Trouble's Recipe* 

May be there's trouble in your soul — 
But why should you repine? 

Whj^ sip at all at worry's bowl — 
To drink the bitter wine? 

Just take a thought that cheers, 
With an ounce of don't-you-care, 

And smiles instead of salty tears — 
'Twould clear the troubled air. 

Gray hairs come fast enough, my friend, 

Why help old age along? 
It lies with you to put an end 

To sorrow's mournful song. 

The past jou would not resurrect — 

You cannot reach ahead; 
The present time should not affect 

The rosy path you tread. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

If everybody dropped their work, 
And magnified their trouble, 

This life would be an endless shirk — 
A dismal, dreary bubble. 



So fill up the glass of contentment — 
Better than crying is kissing; 

Away with your bitter resentment^ — 
Think of the fun that you're missing. 



Sentimental Bill* 

"Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 

'Them fellers are a-smilin' 
Jes' becus I write a verse 

When sentiment's a-bilin', 
An' so I've laid awake a night 

An' started up ther mill. 
To scribble of my Mary Ann,' " 

Said Sentimental Bill. 

"She's jes' the craft that them galoots 

Don't find on every sea. 
My Mary Ann's a corker, an' 

She suits me to a T. 
I'll keep a punchin' up the muse, 

An' stick ter writin' till 
My Mary Ann is advertised," 

Said Sentimental Bill. 



228 



SENTIMENTAL BILL. 

"Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 

'You'll never wear a crown 
For bein' called a han'som' gal 

Or queen above renown. 
You're fat and freckled, Mary Ann, 

But jes' enough ter fill 
The achin' void I've lug-ged aroun',' " 

Said Sentimental Bill. 

"Them fellers don't begin to know 

Wot you ken do fer me. 
In runnin' things about ther house 

No better ken ther be, 
An' if I hev a spell er two 

An' try a fancy frill, 
Ther writin's fer my Mary Ann," 

Said Sentimental Bill. 

"Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 

'When these ere chaps began 
Ter have some fun at my expense, 

They had no Mary Ann. 
An' if they hed, jou bet yer life, 

They'd all be writin' still.' " 
And here he filled his pipe and puffed, 

Did Sentimental Bill. 



229 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The Giddy Scorcher. 

'Tis now the giddy little girl, 

With checkered waist and all, 
Gets out the bike she put away 

In frosty days of fall. 
She'll take her Tarn o' Shanter hat 

From off the kitchen nail. 
And mount the speedy nickel steed 

And on the highways sail. 

Before another fall has come. 

And leaves begin to curl, 
She'll cultivate the lengthened pace, 

She will — the giddy girl! 
At scorching she may beat them all, 

With gear of ninety-eight; 
That she will ride two thousand miles 

We here prognosticate. 

So let her swizzle down the road, 

She knows what she's about; 
She's going to show the neighbors how 

She'll put her friends to rout. 
For just as sure as summer comes, 

This giddy little thing 
Will break her neck in beating out 

The scorcher on the wing. 



230 



THE EASTER CHICK. 



The Easter Chick. 

[During Eastertide, 1898, someone sent Kismet an "Easter 
chick," a diminutive souvenir of the season in yellow.] 

Everywhere the human eye 

Goes glancing- o'er the way, 
It sees the queerest chickens that 

Were born on Easter clay. 
Red and yellow, blue and white, 

Of cotton, wool, and paint — 
You'll find these chickens everywhere 

In form and manner quaint. 

Some have wooden beaks, and eyes 

Like little beads that shine, 
And splashing spots of black and white, 

Along the feathered spine. 
And little splinters, painted red, 

Make u^) their spindle legs — 
Such indeed the chicken is 

That springs from Easter eggs. 

For 'tis a fad, j^ou well must know, 

To send them through the mail, 
To friends who cannot help themselves — 

To whom a chicken's stale. 
For you'll confess, if fair you are, 

No truly hen could lay 
The funnj^ chicks we all have seen 

On the blithesome Easter day. 

231 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMis 



The Elastic Fish. 

[Dedicated to Harry C, Morrill, Fred S. Morrill, Bart N.Wilson' 
G. B. Little, and Oscar P. Stone, who visited Lake Winnipesau" 
kee, N. H., February 24, 1893, and experienced most remark" 
able luck.] 

No bolder men e'er left the town 

Than those who sallied forth 
To pull the trout from out the lake 

Some sixtA' miles due north. 
'Twas frig-id when they started out 

To find the icy shore; 
The figures went below the notch 

To twenty-three or four. 

The lines were set and juicj^ bait 

Was dangling' at the end, 
And finny prizes soon were caught, 

More quickh' than 'tis penned. 
And one of them (now hold your breath) 

Was four feet long- and more, 
And weighed (they swore it did) 

Some twenty pounds or more. 

And all night long the jubilee 

In honor of the fish 
Aroused the echoes miles around — 

'Twas hot as one could wish. 
But when thej' saw the trout again, 

On the keen and frosty morn, 
It didn't look quite half so large, 

And many pounds w^ere gone. 

282 



THE ELASTIC FISH. 

And on the day they started home, 

By cannon ball express, 
They looked ag-ain, and strange to say, 

The pounds were even less. 
And when they reached the citj^ streets 

And showed their finny prize. 
The speckled fish had drojjped away 

To an ordinarj^ size. 

And when they weighed the pesky trout 

To ascertain the truth. 
All this famous fish would stand 

Was just two pounds, forsooth. 
The spots were there, and flabby fins, 

The head, and eyes, and tail. 
But all the weight they figured on 

Was then of no avail. 

But still they tell the story o'er, 

Nor change a single word, 
About the biggest fish they caught, 

And how the thing occurred. 
They never get below the v»'eight 

They guessed the fish to be, 
When first they pulled the monster out 

And smiled in ecstasy. 



233 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



By the Mountain Side* 

There's nothing- that can take the place 
(And the fact you'll not deride) 

Of the sparkling water, cold and pure, 
Of the spring- by the mountain side. 

And it trickles, trickles, trickles! 

Through a narrow rock divide, 
And moves along- the little trough 

To the spring by the mountain side. 

And 3'ou always find it happens 

That shady trees abide 
Where traveler stoops to quench his thirst 

At the spring by the mountain side. 

No throne has homage more devout. 

More love has not the bride. 
Than the patient stream that flows along 

To the spring by the mountain side. 

No secret does this little stream 

To you and me confide; 
We query not as we lowly bend 

At the spring bj'' the mountain side. 

At the music of its waters. 

The soul is satisfied. 
And daily sings the praises 

Of the spring by the mountain side. 

234 



GRIND OF THE MILLS. 



Grind of the Mills* 

The mills of the gods are slowly ground, 
The poets have opined, 

But what's the odds 

If mills of the gods 
Are slow in their daily grind? 

Some wheels go 'round with rapid pace; 
They're plaj'ing every prank; 

They alwaj^s squeak 

Whene'er a freak 
Is at the turning crank. 

Our little mills need patience oil 
To keep the wheels a-going. 

At any rate 

We've but to wait 
To see the grist a-flowing. 

The miller who re^Dineth not, 
Who sings throughout the day, 

Has sense enough 

To take the "stuff" 
Whene'er it comes his way. 



MISCELLAlNTEOX^S POEMS. 



The Gas Meter* 

See the spiteful hands a-jumping, 

Quite erratic in their dance, 
And the figures are a-humping — 

In the thousands they advance. 
And I wouldn't have believed it, 

If my mother'd told me so, 
That the bill, when I received it. 

Could have dealt me such a blow. 

And I fumed and gTCAv jpathetic 

At the meter's awful pace; 
I was gloomy and splenetic. 

As I scanned the dial face. 
And it passed my understanding. 

When I cut the burners down. 
As I found the thing demanding 

Everything I owned in town. 

I have come to this conclusion — 

That we cannot help the things 
That cause us great confusion 

When the meter gaily sings. 
And the gear is something frightful 

That revolves the stubby hands- 
Six months would be delightful — 

Just a day in Arctic lands. 



236 



DE COOX GAL S WINK. 



De Coon GaFs Wink* 

I'se a-lookin' fer de gal 

Who winked at me! 
Sweeter dan de sunrise — 
A-smilin' so free! 

Mah honey bloss'm! 
Fer de j-allar gal wid polka dots 

Uj) an' down her dress 
Is a posey, an' I knows it — 
Xo need ter have ter guess. 

'Taint ev'ry coon gal 

A-winkin' at me! 
I'se a hallelujah niggah — 
Jes' what I be! 

Oh, mah chillun! 
Fer I'd hoe pertaters all de day, 

Keep a-weedin' at de co'n, 
If de yaller gal 'ud tote along 
Befo' de day is gone. 

Eyes of de coon gal 

Winkin' hard at me! 
So like de silver stars 
A-shinin' o' de sea! 
She's mah baby! 
Fer dis niggah's heart's a-bustin' 

An' I'se deader dan a mink. 
If I'se don't find de yaller gal 
Wot's a-givin' me de wink. 
237 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



City Comforts* 

At first the water does a trick — 
It breaks rig-lit tliroug-h the pipe — 

Heaves up the street 

For many feet — 
And paving- bills are ripe! 

Then some one wants a sewer in — 
Tom Jones or Peter Hackett — 

Up comes the street 

For many feet^ — 
The city stands the racket. 

The smell of gas pervades the air, 
The pipes have rusted through — 

Then tear the street 

For many feet — 
We pay the bills when due. 

Additions to the trolley line 
Are always in demand — 

Oh, tear the street 

For many feet^ — 
'Tis we who hire the band. 

And poles go up, and then come down, 
And poles go here and there. 

Eip up the street 

For many feet — 
The people pay the fare. 
238 



THEEE ARE OTHERS. 

Then dig it up, and up, and up! 
Don't hesitate at all 

To slash the street 

For many feet — 
We'll settle when you call. 



There Are Others. 

Our neighbor thinks he's just the chap 

To fill a certain place, 
That no one else on all the map 

Can beat him in the race. 

There are others! 

And Nifty Jones thinks all the votes 

Are being thrown for him, 
That aJl his friends take off their coats 

To keep him in the swim. 

There are others! 

If Klondike passage you have bought — 

The gold you try to reach — 
Don't claim it all, for you are not 

The only pebble on the beach. 
There are others! 

You seek a summer resting spot, 

A place where no one went, 
But quite beyond j^our fondest thought, 

A score that way are bent. 

There are others! 



239 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Don't think because the gay soubrette 

Looks smilingly your way, 
That she's entangled in your net, 

And ne'er can say you nay. 

There are others! 

You may be of inventive mind — 
Your ideas more than latent, 

But don't you grumble when you find 
Some dutfer's got your patent. 
There are others! 

Just keep your head and plod along, 

To do your level best. 
And spurn the thought that you belong 

Away above the rest. 

There are others! 



The Veteran Fireman* 

[Dedicated to the Manchester Veteran Firemen's Association, 
band of tried and true fire fighters.] 

He ain't much use? 

Those words are pretty strong. 

We've seen the time 

He'd run and climb 

The best of all the throng. 

Just because he's grayer grown, 

And somewhat grizzled-like. 
You think his courage long has flown, 
To do with ax and pike. 



240 



THE VETERAN FIREMAN. 

You don't think? 
Ah, now you're talking, friend! 
In days g'one by 
We found him sjDry 
In battling to the end. 
He always braved the smoke and flame 

In day or deepest night; 
Call him now, he'll be the same. 
And fight with all his might. 

Think it over! 
Not long ago was Varick's fire. 
The grizzled vet 
Was out, you bet, 
To helj) in danger dire. 
Eemember how he offered, sir. 

To yank the old machine 
From out the shed and start the fur 
A-flying' on the green. 

And even now. 
In case our troubles come — 
You'll find him there 
To do and dare — 
The brakes will quickly hum. 
You'll find the stream is just as wet> 

The old machine will throw; 
There's muscle in the fireman yet. 
Who ran long, long ago. 



241 



MISCELLANEOL'S POEMS. 

Give him a chance! 
He'll show his head is calm — 
That blood will tell 
When steeple bell 
Eings out the wild alarm. 
Though hair is gray and grizzle, too, 

His eye is keen and bright; 
You'll find him when there's work to do 
In the thickest of the fight. 



The ModeL 

Golden tresses, laughing eyes. 

Blushes 'neath the curl, 
Dimf)les in the rosy cheeks, 

Teeth of brightest pearl. 
Taper fingers, rounded arm, 

Shoulders of a queen; 
Every move is symmetry. 

Goddess-like her mien. 

All she gets is ten a week, 

This bit of rare mosaic. 
Trying on the ladies' cloaks, 

A model quite prosaic. 
All the day she turns about 

Patient in her duty. 
Not a dame of upper ten 

Can beat her in her beauty. 

212 



HE LOVED HER. 



He Loved Her, 

He loved her, oh, he loved her, 

But not for wealth alone; 
He loved her through the speedy mails, 

And o'er the telephone. 
He loved her for her golden hair 

And eyes of swimming blue; 
He loved her, too, because she said 

She'd be forever true. 

He loved her, oh, he loved her, 

And worried all the day, 
Because he thought some other chap 

Would steal his love away. 
He swore he'd be her humble slave 

As long as breath was in him; 
He loved her, oh, he loved her, 

But fate was dead agin' him. 

He started out one night to call, 

And roses did he bring, 
But at the gate he met the purp, 

Who didn't do a thing. 
He chewed the chap who loved so much. 

And chased him from the door, 
And all the neighbors round about 

Ne'er saw the lover more. 



243 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The Flower GirL 

The day is not far distant — 

She'll be a shining* queen; 
As a leader in society, 

She'll beat the whole machine. 
But now she's there a-smiling-, 

And she reaches up her arm, 
For she's pinning' on the roses 

In a way that has a charm. 

We can see the time approaching, 

When the dimes are hard to get. 
And we'll wish we had a nosegay, 

When our sun begins to set. 
Her merry eyes are twinkling*, 

Her smile's the sweetest balm, 
While she's pinning on the roses 

As she stands beneath the palm. 

Perhaps she'll not forget us 

In the days that are to come, 
While she's flying in society — 

A-making- matters hum. 
May be when she's a-dreaming. 

And everything is calm, 
She would like to pin the roses 

As she stands beneath the palm. 

244 



A FRIEND'S ADVICE. 



A Friend^s Advice. 



[The fall of 1897 and spring of 1898 saw a great rush to Alaska 
and the Klondike regions in search of gold and many perished 
en route.] 

'Twas nineteen hundred eighty-two, 

Some hundred years ahead, 
A Klondike tourist, keen of sight, 

Was through the countrj^ led. 

He pushed along for miles and miles, 
Right through the Chilkoot way, 

And when he'd tramped for fourteen weeks, 
He stopped to rest one day. 

At early morn he spied a block 

Of ice of queerest mold. 
He straightway smashed the chunk into 

A thousand bits, all told. • 

Quite ossified, a man rolled out — 

He couldn't say a word, 
But in his hand a scrawl was found, 

This message long deferred: 

"In eighteen hundred ninety-eight 

('Twas in the month of May) 
I came out here to look for gold, 

And here I think I'll stay. 

245 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

"Quite warm I've been and cosy-like, 
For food I ne'er have pined; 

These Arctic nights are great for sleep; 
Much quiet you will find. 

"Pray tell the friends I've left behind — 
When once you've read this paper — 

For frigid peace and solid rest, 
The Klondike's just the caper." 



The Rabbit's Foot. 

He wore the lucky rabbit's foot; 

It was a potent charm; 
It drove away the goblins and 

Protected him from harm. 
He hung it on his plated chain, 

And wore it night and day, 
For many moons when trouble came. 

With him 'twould never stay. 

Alas! One day a cyclone came 

And showed its angry teeth, 
It toppled o'er a granite block — 

The man was underneath. 
And when they cleared the wreck away 

The sight was sad indeed; 
Rabbit's foot and man were ground 

As fine as mustard seed. 



246 



TUMBLE AWAY, EED CLOUDS. 



Tumble Away, Red Clouds* 

Tumble away, 

Red clouds! 
You have no business here! 

Quickly flee 

Behind the sea; 
Your presence g-iveth fear. 

Tumble away. 

Red clouds! 
Soft background to the sun! 

The shining light, 

And brightened sight 
Make spirits lightly run. 

Tumble away, 

Red clouds! 
The sunset's reddened cast 

In colors flying 

Reflect the dying 
Of the gloomy day that's past. 

Tumble away, 

Red clouds! 
There's no more use for you. 

We've the warning 

That the morning 
With blessings God will strew. 



24'] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Tumble away, 

Eed clouds! 
Go bless the antipodes! 

For other ruen 

Will see you when 
You rise bej^ond the seas. 

Tumble away, 

Eed clouds! 
Quite well we've learned your story. 

You've taug-ht us how 

To meekly bow 
Before His tinted glory. 



Whafs the Use! 

In hot July you cry for snow — 

What's the use! 
In winter time you'd summer know — 

What's the use! 
If dry, you'd rather have the rain, 
If wet, you want it dry again. 

Oh, what's the use! 

Your coffers filled, you praise the poor- 

What's the use! 
And poverty you can't endure! 

What's the use! 
If rich, a cottage life will do. 
Penniless, the opposite is true. 

Oh, what's the use! 

24% 



what's the use! 

Sing-le, you hail the married state. 

What's the use! 
Married, 'tis such a dreadful fate. 

What's the use! 
You swear to cling- to her forever, 
Then you haste the bonds to sever. 

Oh, what's the use! 

*Tis yearning-, Avishing all the time — 

W^hat's the use! 
Now 3^ou're foolish, then sublime! 

What's the use! 
First you're up and then you're down, 
Now a smile and then a frown. 

Oh, what's the use! 

There's little use in repining. 

What's the use! 
Gold is better in refining! 

What's the use! 
Worry trebles all your fears, 
Makes you older than your years. 

Oh, what's the use! 



249 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Those Babies* 

There are babies always squealing 
In the block across the way — 

The music's o'er me stealing, 
And their songs have come to stay. 

And their little fists are pounding, 

A la Corbett in the ring; 
I can hear their cries resounding 

As the little devils sing. 

Oh, those babies, how they prattle, 
In a language of their own, 

And you can't withstand the rattle 
Of an alphabet unknown. 

And the racket is appalling, 
Such a din you never heard; 

Oh, the bawling and the squalling. 
And you say a naughty word. 

But the subject is a sticker. 
Now that you're upon the shelf. 

You were once a squalling kicker, 
And a noisy kid yourself. 



250 



THE CHAPERONE. 



The Chaperone* 

There she sweeps along the hall, 

Curt's'ing- here and there, 
Shoulders gleam beneath the shawl, 

Jewels in her hair. 
In her train are angels three, 

Fairy eyes and all; 
As thej^ pass, they gaze at me, 

And then their lashes fall. 

And oh, that I were in her place, 

And just a chaperone, 
Time would fly at rapid pace, 

And I'd not be alone. 
Dancing with those angels three. 

Would be my fond delight — 
Happy would yours truly be 

All through the merry night. 

Strange it seems that fevered dames. 

Who've been through battles many. 
Should first inspect our modest claims, 

If we, poor men, had any. 
But after all, perhaps 'tis true. 

The chaperone's all right. 
Because she's had so much to do 

With everything in sight. 



251 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The Telephone GirL 

What maiden in all history 

(Name her if you can!) 
Could sit all day and listen 

To the twittering's of man? 
The follies and the jollies 

Which begin at early morn — 
Like the g-irl who sits and listens 

When the telejihone is on. 

Her voice — is like an angel's; 

She is patient all the day; 
While you mutter and you sputter, 

She has fewest "words to say. 
She answers you so sweetly 

When your soul is boiling- o'er, 
As when she says "Connected," 

And your wrath flies out the door. 

Do you ever stop to ponder 

On the iDCople she must greet? 
That no introduction aids her 

With the ones she has to meet? 
She must be most diplomatic 

With all kinds of cranky men. 
Let's remember and be kindly 

When we si^eak to her again. 



252 



THE MINISTER S WIFE. 

So, "Hello," my iDatient maiden, 

May you ever liaf)py be; 
May no "crosses" e'er disturb you, 

And to you we bend the knee. 
May your voice grow ever sweeter. 

And your labors lig-hter, too; 
May we all be quite considerate 

When with vou — we have to do. 



The Minister's Wife. 

In daily life she always smiles. 

Brimful her voice with cheer; 
The softened tones do much to heal 

The pain and dry the tear. 
Xo sermons does she try to preach, 

No other doctrines mock — 
She's sweet — that's all — this loving wife 

Of him who guides the flock. 

And after all, perhaps 'tis she 

Whose inspiration leads 
The man of cloth to save the world 

By planting- gospel seeds. 
No D. D.'s tacked upon her name, 

Quite humble is her station, 
But what she does in quiet way 

Invites our admiration. 



253 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The Proof reader. 

Fat and hearty, there he sits, 

A king- upon his throne, 
And dashes here, and scratches there 

He makes with heart of stone. 

A streak of gray is in his hair, 

And lines upon his face; 
A smile is there, you'd think that he 

Sat in a happy place. 

Alas! He's troubled all the time, 
And worried beyond measure. 

Not beneath that sunny smile 
Is much of honeyed pleasure. 

Ads. and all he reads the same, 

The sentiment is wanting-; 
He knows just how the thing should be, 

And commas he is flaunting. 

And when mistakes are often made, 

The cause we little reck. 
We jump upon this knowing chap. 

And land him in the neck. 



254 



YOUR SILVER WEDDING. 



Your Silver Wedding. 

[Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. J, H. Bartlett, East Manchester, 
June 30, 1898.] 

Years have passed — just twenty-five, 

Since God hath bound together 
Man and maid in love's estate, 

In niatrinion3''s tether. 
Kind fortune never once has failed 

To bless these smiling- friends. 
And g-ifts she showered now and then 

Were used to wisest ends. 

Many suns have soft declined 

Behind the western hills. 
And ushered in the restful night. 

When sleep its measure fills. 
Days of sorrow, — sunshine, too. 

Have been their lot to bear, 
And each has borne the burdens well, 

Their just and equal share. 

The world has seen most rapid change, 

As history's pages turned; 
Men have come and men have gone. 

And lessons have been learned. 
Some survived the battle's din. 

And won eternal fame. 
Others failed to help themselves 

And gave to others blame. 

255 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But sweet it is to meet j^ou here, 

With friends who know you well, 
Who like you for your mental worth, 

Who loud 3^our praises swell. 
You've fought the fight of many years; 

Your patience is rewarded; 
We join with j'ou in praising Him 

In blessings He's accorded. 

And there are those who'll ne'er forget 

That day in Barnstead fair, 
When blithesome maid; and rosy cheeked, 

Breathed out the marriage prayer. 
She trusted all to whom she gave 

Her hand in wedded state, 
And he has proved beyond a doubt 

A sturdy, helping mate. 

She does not weep in vain regret 

That choice was rudely placed, 
And he has not a word to say 

That time should be effaced. 
For man and wife have sweetly lived 

In harmony and bliss, 
And love has grown more fragrant, too, 

Since first they gave the kiss. 

We give to thee our boundless love. 
Our hopes for brightest days. 

We pledge our friendship, warm and true. 
No matter where thy ways. 

256 



A SUHE THING. 

We trust that fortune, once so kind, 
May shine in future years, 

And bring to thee the best of all, — 
The faith that covers fears. 



A Sure Thingf* 

I left a maid behind me — 
The girl with the twinkling eye, 
With tresses so bright 
That they shone in the night, 
And she breathed a sigh. 

For she told me how she loved me, 
And her manner was a treat; 
She smiled and smiled 
And my heart beguiled. 
With her glances sweet. 

Her siDirit's always near me — 
This maid I left behind. 

Her smile I feel 

From head to heel, 
With joy that's unconfined. 

And the maid I left behind, 
The girl with twinkling eye, 

May safely bet 

My love she'll get, 
Or I'll know the reason why. 

257 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Mary Jane's Advice* 

In the flicker of the firelight 

Sot Mary Jane an' me, 
A-talking' o'er the olden time, 

From A to crooked Z. 
We talked about our Samuel, 

Fer I couldn't understand 
Why he roved an' spent his earnin's 

In a way to beat the band. 

"You know," sez I ter Mary, 

"I trained him fer to be 
A man of much distinction, 

An' a source of pride ter me. 
An' here he's been a sportin' 

An' a sorter flyin' high, 
An' a-spendin' all his monej^ — 

Ef he hain't I hope ter die." 

Now, Mary alius hed a heart. 

An' a heart that alius bled, 
Ef I criticized our Samuel, 

No matter what wuz sed. 
An' her smile wuz kinder lovin' 

As she put her face to mine; 
'Twas alius sorter wonderful 

The way her eyes did shine. 

258 



THE SPARK IS THERE. 

"Now, Eben," sed my Maiy, 

'"Twuzn't many years ago, 
When you sailed around the county 

In a way that wuzn't slow. 
Ther man he wuz a g-ood one 

Who could lead you in the dance, 
So, Eben, hold your hosses, 

An' give our Sam a chance." 

An' I sorter thought it over, 

As mj' eyes began ter dim, 
Thet Mary knew a thing or two 

Ef she was a little prim. 
An' so I hev concluded 

Ter let our Sammy be, 
In hopes he'll be successful, 

An' a source of pride ter me. 



The Spark is There. 

Don't light 3'our fire with kerosene — 

This oil is no illusion. 
For rich and poor, the good and mean, 

It stirs up much confusion. 
For you can bet the spark is there 

That sets the flame a-prancing. 
A whiff and bang! Up in the air 

Goes maid and can a-dancing. 



259 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The New Woman* 

Tyrolean hat and 

Collars and cuffs 
She wears with the greatest ease; 

And Annabelle dotes 

On tailor-made coats 
With pockets and all, if you please. 

No terrors have fences 

For dear Annabelle — 
Over she goes with a smile; 

She tackles the gym 

With a rush and a vim 
In keeping with masculine style. 

She boxes and fences, 

Punches the bag, 
And ventures the rowing machine; 

Hangs by her knees 

To the flying trapeze. 
And rivals the aerial queen. 

She swims like a duck 

And runs like a deer; 
No jockey can ride a horse faster; 

The scorcher must bend 

And race to the end 
If his mind is made up to go past her. 



260 



PLAIN DOG. 

But when the new woman 
Tries throwing a stone — 

The gods never saw such a sight; 
And betting is safe 
No masculine waif 

Can tell where that stone will alight. 



Plain Dog. 

Only a dog! 
And yellow at that, 

With matted and shaggy hair — 
He scratched and scratched 
And scratched and scratched — 

Much trouble he had to bear. 

Only a dog! 

With short, stumpy tail, 
And as dirty as he could be — 

He whined and whined 

And whined and whined 
Whenerer he couldn't agree. 

Onlj' a dog! 

Like beads his eyes, 
They glittered from morn till night — 

He barked and barked 

And barked and barked, 
But never was known to bite. 



261 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Only a dog! 

And a measly purp — 
One of the smallest fry. 

He sniffed and snuffed 

And sniffed and snuffed 
And clipped at a blue bottle fly. 

Only a dog! 
And lie wiggled along 

For the eat on the backyard fence. 
He scurried and scurried 
And scurried and scurried — 

The little dog lost his sense. 

Only a dog! 

And a no-account cur! 
Oh, why was he put here at all? 

He sleeps and sleeps 

And sleeps and sleeps, 
Like a tangled up, yellow-brown ball. 

Only a dog! 

But more lucky he 
Than many a loving swain would be; 

He's petted and petted 

And petted and petted 
By the fairest maid you ever did see! 



262 



ONLY A HAIR. 



Only A Hain 

'Twas one of a bunch 
Of golden locks — 

Only a single hair! 
It placed my friend 
In a frightful box — 

Yet only a single hair! 

On the wings of the wind 
It may have come — 

This innocent little hair! 
But no matter how, 
It made things hum — 

And only a single hair! 

He carried it home 
On his coat lapel — 

Only a single hair! 
The more he explained 
The less he could tell 

Of the little strand of hair! 

The trouble it caused 
Was simply immense — 

Yet only a single hair! 
Tears and reproach 
And long arguments 

Concerning this little hair! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My friend has become 
Most carefully neat, 

And looks for the little hair! 
He brushes his clothes 
From head to his feet, 

His eye on the single hair! 

While none Avill deny 
That manj' a life 

Is saved by a single hair! 
Yet many a chap 
Falls out with his wife 

On account of a single hair! 



The Pattering: Rain. 

How oft in the night 

You are softly awakened 

By jingle of sash and -pane — 
The music is clear, 
As it comes to the ear, 

Of the sound of the i)attering rain. 

The twinkle of stars 

In the fine summer eve 

Told not of the storm in the main, 
But the noise in the night, 
Though ever so slight, 

Was the sound of the jDattering rain. 

264 



THE PATTERING RAIN. 

The tin roof rumbled 

And grumbled and groaned, 

The wind whistled doleful refrain, 
And purely in pique, 
The blind gave a squeak 

At the sound of the pattering rain. 

And over you rolled 

In the tumbled-up bed — 

The hours you counted in vain; 
You juggled for sleep. 
And curses were deep, 

For the sound of the pattering rain. 

It pelted and splashed 

And spattered the earth- 
Squeak went the blind again! 
And above all the rattle 
And din of the bat.tle 
Was the sound of the pattering rain. 

The break of the day 

Saw the rays of the sun. 

And Nature did innocence feign. 
But a pert little puddle 
Told her of the muddle 

Which came of the pattering rain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Birthdays, 

What! A birthday? 
Sixteen, or twenty, thirty-eight, 
Or fifty-two! 
But you're a girl! 
To tell the years you've wrestled fate 
Would never do! 

A secret of your own? 
Very well, my dear, tell it not 
To any one. 
I need not guess? 
Just let me try a fancy shot^ — 
It's only fun. 

Your eyes seem twenty! 

I'd swear those ruby lips were 

Sixteen fair. 

Tassels on the corn. 

Which the summer breezes stir. 

Are like j'our hair. 

A mind of forty 
Scintillates like moonlight rays 
Across the sea. 
And, indej)endent like, 
Tells me that in many ways 
We can't agree! 

266 



DIVIDE BY TWO. 

Add the given figures! 
And seventj'-six the fleeting years 
Count up. 
Saucy man, am I? 
Pray don't let your angry fears 
Mount up. 

You're only twenty-two? 
So, after all, perhaps I've been 
A cruel bore, 
For girls like you 
Often know much more than men 
Of sixtv-four! 



Divide by Two. 

If all you hear were really true. 
You might have cause to feel 

That life indeed had pleasures few 
And w'ounds would never heal. 

No story told in all the years 
Since time was first allotted, 

But what the plot somehow appears 
A little bit distorted. 

So, what's the use of losing sleep 
O'er what the gossips say; 

Divide by tw^o — the balance keep — 
And truth will win the day. 

267 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Boom the Celebration. 

[For many years it had been customarv for the Man- 
chester, N. H., Board of Trade to coaduct a celebration each 
fall, known as "Merchants' Week." In 1897, the board 
ofifered prizes for ideas for Merchants' week features.] 

Merchants' week will soon be here; 

We need your close attention; 
What ^ve want is a good idea 

To boom the celebration. 

And fear not that your little scheme 
Will meet with quick rejection; 

Turn on the valve and raise the steam, 
And g'ive us some selection. 

A diamond stud is a beauty prize 
For the man who jumps the river — 

A piarachute for the chap who flies 
To the lake without a quiver. 

If a thousand pounds some youth will raise 
And thus outdo his neighbor, 

His prize will be just thirty days 
At Grasmere, with hard labor. 

And scientific burg-lars, keen, 

With little perturbation, 
Could crack a safe, and do it clean, 

And win our approbation. 



BOOM THE CELEBRATION. 

The g-ay and festive city dad, 

Who has no ax to grind, 
Would make a show that's not so bad, 

Because he's hard to find. 

The Leag-ue mig-ht into favor climb. 

And gfive a sundry quarter 
To the chump who drinks in quickest time 

A gallon or so of water. 

A scheme that takes its place in front. 

In which we might embark, 
Would be a red-hot lion hunt, 

In the famous West Side park. 

A chariot race on Hanover hill — 
A slide from the highest steeple — 

And other things would till the bill 
For the g'reat and only j)eople. 

As Merchants' week will soon be here, 
We need your close attention. 

What we want is a good idea 
To boom the celebration. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To My Pipe. 

I caress you in m^'^ day-dreams 

For the blessings that you give, 
And the soothing of your incense 

Makes it worth the while to live. 
Though you're black from constant usage, 

And your bowl is burned awaj^ 
You have been my dear companion 

In the thickest of the fray. 

Though you're scarred and somewhat dingy, 

You are worth your weight in gold, 
Just because j'ou've shared mj' sorrows 

In the hardened days of old. 
I'll not see you badly treated, 

But I'll place you in your nest, 
'Tween the covers lined with velvet, 

Where you'll find a needed rest. 

And quite well do I remember, 

As I toiled in midnight hours, 
When my brain seemed over-splitting, 

And my troubles came in showers, 
That j'ou brought me solace tender, 

And dispelled my anxious fears, 
In a way that earned my blessing, 

And repulsed the crowding tears. 

270 



SOMETHING WRONG. 

When the storm was angry, howling, 

And the wind was over-bold. 
When the rafters were a-creaking, 

In the dead of winter, cold, 
You and I beside the mantel, 

As contented as could be, 
Bade defiance to the raging 

Of the swirling jamboree. 

To my pipe I pay devotion, 

As a friend of truest steel. 
And I won't forget your comfort 

When you answer my appeal. 
For you've lightened all my labors, 

And removed the grinding" pain, 
So I place you with my treasures, 

As I murmur this refrain. 



Something Wrong* 

There's something wrong with you, my friend, 

When you begin to think 
That from the cup of keen regret 

You only are to drink. 
There's something wrong, you can't deny. 

When you are wony's prey. 
And when you think that no one else 

Has sorrows to allay. 



271 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

There's something- wrong about your life 

Whene'er your mind reverts 
To thoughts that all the world should bow 

Whene'er your pride asserts. 
There's something wrong when you believe 

You are the only chajp 
Who should receive the best of all 

That drops from Fortune's lap. 



The Narcissus^ 

Her dainty hand had pinned it there, 

And, bending low, she smiled, — 
Narcissus, golden, sweet-perfumed, 

Whose fragrance soft-beguiled. 
He wore it in his buttonhole, 

And everywhere he went 
He thought of her who pinned it there, 

And wondered what she meant. 

But sentiment was lacking there. 

She didn't care a thing; 
She only pinned the flower there 

For what the bud would bring. 
From noon till night she stayed behind 

The counter in the store. 
And pinned the buds upon the coats 

Of masculines galore. 



272 



THEN AND NOW. 



Then and Now. 

Softlj^ stealing- o'er the flood, the music of the 

night 
Enthralled the senses, stifled grief, and put the 

pain to flight. 
Silver ripples kept the time, the strains grew 

softly sweeter; 
Twinkling stars seemed brighter as we listened 

to the metre. 

And as we paused on moonlit shores, beneath 

the silent skies, 
I asked her for her j)lighted love — she answered 

with her eyes. 
And then the music glided on from o'er the 

distant water. 
And as I heard the dulcet tones I knew that I 

had caught her. 

That was very long ago, when we were both 

romantic ; 
Now we live in city flats beside the old Atlantic. 
The hurdy-gurdy's all we hear — the dago's at 

the crank — 
'Tis then we wish that we were back on the 

moonlit, lakeside bank. 



273 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To My Paper- Weight. 

Days and days j^ou've rested there 

Upon my block of paper; 
All 3^ou do is but to stare 

When pen nibs cut a caper. 

Were you blessed with s^Deaking tones 
And read what's underlined, 

I pity all the little thrones 
That would be undermined. 

You have seen the crooked tracks 
That pen and ink have rolled; 

Well you know the stacks and stacks 
Of secrets thej^ have told. 

And if your lips could softened be, 
And you would tell my story, 

Ink would cease to run so free, 
And dimmed would be your glory. 

I'd gently take you far away, 
And drop you in the stream, 

Where you should ever, ever stay — 
A faded, shattered dream. 

A weighty thing you are, indeed, 
And that's your only virtue; 

I onl}' ask that you shall heed 
My secrets or — I'll hurt you. 

274 



TO EGBERT. 



To Robert* 

A little mound now marks the place 

Where darling- Eobert's sleeping. 
Eolling" time cannot efface 

Our cause for tender weeping. 
The roll of drum could not be heard— 

No XDomjD was shown the dead, 
And well it might be here inferred 

No eulogy was said. 

The wind is whistling o'er the main, 

'Tis rustling through the reeds; 
I feel the trace of sorrow's pain, 

My heart for Robert bleeds. 
For when I knew the gay deceased, 

He revelled in the night, 
While I enjoyed his vocal feast 

And swore a mig-htv sig'ht. 



A bottle laid i)oor Eobert low, 

A target did I make him; 
He never knew who gave the blow, 

And music did forsake him. 
We gently lifted Robert up — 

He lies beneath the mound; 
O'er him bends the buttercup 

And rest has Robert found. 



275 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A Week of Salt. 

[During our particularly frigid season in Manchester, the 
street department sprinkled salt on the public sidewalks to 
melt the ice. The results were astonishing in all walks of life.] 

There was salt upon the crossing" and upon the 

gutters tossing, 
And salt we found upon the office floor, 
For it ate our winter rubbers, and we cursed 

the careless lubbers 
Who threw salt in quantities galore. 

On the sidewalk brightly gleaming, see the 

snow and ice a-steaming, 
As the salt is getting* in its deadly work. 
How we wallowed in the slush and cavorted in 

the mush, 
And everywhere the salty brine did lurk. 

Sing, ho! The sloppy messes, that disfigured 

ladies' dresses, 
As the angels picked their way along the street, 
For the bug from Buffalo and the moth that's 

on the go 
Couldn't make the damage any more complete. 

For wherever we'd be roaming, in the morning 

or the gloaming, 
There was salt in every corner in the town — 
In the office and the store, where it never was 

before, 
And the salty paths go running up and down. 

276 



MEKCENARY, 

If all you want is salt, you can find but little 

fault, 
For the stuff is staying- by you all the day. 
You can find it in the nig-ht, like the yellow 

fever blight. 
In the cosy home, the church, or at the play. 



Mercenary* 

I stroked the silken tresses, and I peered into 

her eyes. 
And rog-uish-like she gave me such a smile. 
I ventured to remind her that she was a dainty 

prize 
For the fellow who was smitten by her style. 

She tossed her head away from me, her eyes 

were flashing fire, 
And I plainly saw she couldn't take a hint. 
"I'll have you understand," said she, "you'll 

have to see my sire, 
And prove to him you run a private mint." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The Gallant Capt'in* 

O'Malley, raise the windy, 

Look out upon the say, 
The waves are bilin' over. 

The storm is on the bay. 
I see a ship a-lurehin' 

Furninst the pointed rocks; 
Upon me sowl, O'Mallej', 

The capt'in's in a box. 
You hear the sails a-flappin' 

Agin the crakin' mast; 
A sixpence is me wager 

The ship has seen its last. 
Two hundred feet'll bring her 

A-crashin' on the shore; 
Me heart is heavy batin' 

It trembles to the core. 
Upon me sowl, O'Malley, 

An' do me eyes desave? 
That capt'in is a dandy; 

No lion is as brave. 
He's sent the ship a-whirlin' 

Her bow divides the gale; 
She's puttin' out to seaward 

And layin' on the sail. 
O'Malley, shl^t the windy; 

Let's take a warmin' nip. 
An' praise the gallant capt'in 

For savin' of his ship. 

278 



THE FEIEND WHO STICKS. 



The Friend Who Sticks. 

Hail the clay that brings the gladness 
Of a friend M'ho's newly found, 

If in him you find the virtue 
Of devotion true and sound. 

And the friend who throws the scandal 

To the winds that distant blow- 
He's the friend to cherish always 
In the summer time and snow. 

Eare they are, and wide apart, 

The friends wiiom yo\i may trust; 

Never let them go at all, 
And value them you must. 

He's the friend who sticks it out 
And backs you when in need; 

Such a friend is just the man 
Who's always kind in deed. 

Such a friend is w^orth his weight 

In purest kind of gold. 
And don't forget to keep him with 

The tightest kind of hold. 



279 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Calm Down, My Honey* 

If a friend should i^ass you bj^ 
And he didn't tell you ^vhJ^ 
Calm down, my honey! 

For x^erhajjs he didn't know 
That you were So-and-so, 

Calm down, my honey! 

The girl you love, i^erhaps, 
May smile on other chaps, 
Calm down, my honej'! 

Her heart may still be true 
And she may be trying- you, 
Calm down, my honejM 

When the sun is seldom shining 
And there is no silver lining. 
Calm down, my honey! 

There are burdens quite enough — 

Though the path of life be rough, 

Calm down, my honey! 



280 



WHY DO THEY 



Why Do They? 

Whj' does the woman coax the man 

With fascinating- smiles, 
And then berate him just because 

He yielded to her wiles? 

Why does the faded, yaller purp 

Persist in running- out, 
And barking, biting, stir the wrath 

Of wheelmen round about? 

Why does the chap on ten a week. 

And scarcely out of debt. 
Buy flowers and present them to 

The flaxen-haired soubrette? 

Why does the maid with straightened bangs 

And thin, cadaverous face, 
Go scorching up and down the street 

At the warmest kind of pace? 

Why does the man of shaggy beard 

And manners quite passe. 
Think every girl who comes along 

Is looking just his way? 



281 



MISCELLANEOUS POE^klS. 

Why does the artist on the bike, 
Without the least cessation, 

Proclaim his wheel to be the best 
There is in all creation? 

Why do the lover's mellow eyes 
Discern with adulation 

Much beauty in the homely one 
To whom he pays devotion? 



The Sweetly Graduated* 

'Tis now the time of prose and rhyme, 

When girls in pink and white 
Prepare to read their little screed 

And set the w^orld aright. 

The manly boy is now to toy 
With problems that beset us — 

He'll let us know that he can show 
The plan that will relieve us. 

It's well, perhaps, that all the raps 
With which our lives are freighted, 

Will not be found, till years come 'round, 
To the sweetly graduated. 



282 



SOON. 



Soon* 

Soon will melt the muddy ice 

Before the noonday sun; 
Soon will all the city streets 

Like rivers swiftly run. 
Soon will overshoes be thrown 

Away for russet ties; 
Soon will marbles please the boys, 

And bats knock out the flies. 

Soon will all arbutus fiends 

0'ertrami3 the hill and dale; 
Soon will bock and other stuff 

Eeplace the bitter ale. 
Soon will dust before the wind 

Close up each open eye; 
Soon will awning-s touch the hat 

Of him who's six feet high. 

Soon will men of many mills 

Behold the river rise; 
Soon will weakened bridges know 

The blow that will surprise. 
Soon will artful candidates 

Surround you with their claims, 
Soon will circus bills go uj), 

As lurid as the flames. 



MISCELLANEOt^S POEMS. 

Soon will silk and cotton take 

The place of flannel shirts; 
Soon will polka clots and stripes 

Bedeck the dandy squirts. 
Soon will maidens disappear 

To sands of cooling seas; 
Soon will summer boarders throw 

Their money to the breeze. 

Soon will Spain repent the crime 

That killed the boys in blue; 
Soon will Uncle Sam wake up 

To what he ought to do. 
Soon the Stars and Stripes will fly 

Above Castilian lands; 
Scon will all the world applaud 

The way this country stands. 



The Twinkling: Star. 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star! 

Now you're in your glory. 
Through your advertising man 

We've heard your pretty story. 

All the summer you have been 

Through trials that are frightful; 

You've lost your jewels many times- 
The ad. was most delightful. 



LIFE. 



For all the narrow squeaks you've had, 

It must be understood, 
That many go to see you act 

Who never thought you could. 



Life. 

Dreaming, 

Seeming, 
By the way, 

Hoping, 

Groping, 
All the day. 

Pleading, 

Bleeding, 
Dodging strife. 

Slaving, 

Saving, 
That is life. 

Ailing, 

Failing, 
Never mend. 

Crying, 

Dying, 
That's the end. 



285 



MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



Lines to a Youngf Man, 

[In the latter part of January, 1898, Col. Harry B. Cilley left 
for the Pacific slope. On the evening preceding his departure, 
a number of the members of the Derryfleld Club tendered Mr. 
Cilley a banquet at the club rooms, and one of the features of 
the exercises was the reading of these "Lines to a Young Man," 
designed to comfort Mr. Cilley on his long trip to the West.] 

Long, long ago we heard it said, that empire 

westward goes, 
And where it rests is golden wealth and liquid 

honey flows; 
And now we're told that one of us, of whom 

we're over-fond, 
Is soon to turn his collar up, and leave for 

parts beyond. 

O'er rivers, bridges high, and canons and cre- 
vasses. 

Brother Cilley soon will flit through snowy 
mountain passes; 

Then bej^ond the Eockj^ peaks, he'll sail to 
balmj^ coasts, 

And Californy'll have the chap who now re- 
ceives our toasts. 

He's soon to leave a mother dear, and father, 
kind, protecting. 

Whose whitened hairs, paternal like, are times 
of frost reflecting. 

The Audubons of local fame who love the 
plumaged bird. 

Will lose the one who tames them all — No mat- 
ter what's inferred. 
286 



LINES TO A YOUNG MAN. 

We'd like to offer just a word to him who now 
departs — 

Advice that comes from, surging- brains and 
overloaded hearts. 

Eemember, friend, away from home, tempta- 
tions may beset jon, 

And knowing this, we'll tell you now, in prayers 
we'll not forget you. 

Cigarettes, the noxious things, bring youth to 

early grave, 
And when the habit's once begun, said youth 

is hard to save. 
We know you never use the weed, and caution 

may be wasted. 
But still, advice we'd like to give before the 

things are tasted. 

O'er the mountains, near the sea, along the 

golden slope. 
We're told that maidens, liquid-eyed, are prone 

to oft elope. 
Their sunny hair, and rounded cheeks, and 

shoulders passing fair. 
Are charms that blind the strangers' eyes and 

drag them to the snare. 

Of all the trials known to man, the siren's art's 

the worst, 
And if our brother Cilley falls, perhajDs he's 

not the first. 

287 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Full well we know the Golden Gate has seldom 

seen a man 
Whose gallantry outshines them all — he loves 

whene'er he can. 

In military form and code, the western state 
will gain 

A stickler with the sword and gun, and sol- 
dier without stain. 

In golden laces, buttons bright, and rigid 
etiquette, 

We feel our friend is just the one to lead the 
social set. 

In club affairs he's had his hand upon the 
steering wheel, 

And oftentimes reproved the boys — but not 
with iron heel. 

We'd take his warning sober-like — our punish- 
ment like men. 

But when our brother's back was turned, we'd 
break the rules again. 

Now, when you cross the great divide and settle 

on your claim. 
We wish you'd use your silver tongue — uphold 

industry's name. 
Wicked men have tried to say that why the 

mills were stopped 
Was just because the people turned and to 

McKinlej^ flopped. 

288 



LINES TO A YOUNG MAN. 

That this is false, we need not say, you know 

the East too well; 
The reason why the mills were stopped, takes 

us much time to tell. 
We'd like to have you spread the news that we 

are here to stay; 
We hope to see, at early date, a new and 

brighter day. 

We have told you what to do, when at your 

journey's end; 
We know Dame Fortune, softly wooed, will 

many blessings send. 
We see you now amid the groves, with fragrant 

blossoms o'er you; 
We know you'll own the state in time — the 

world is now before you. 



289 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Lochinvar up to Date* 

Gay Loehinvar came 'round the bend 
And steam came from his wheels; 

Hot love his heart did sadly rend — 
You know just how that feels. 

Gay Loehinvar! No horse for him! 

No kingdoms would he trade; 
He'd sooner trust his life and limb 

To bikes of standard grade. 

Gay Loehinvar, no fear had he, 

As he landed at the gate; 
He grabbed his wheel, and — Gracious me! 

How Loehinvar did skat-e! 



290 



LINES TO KISMET. 



TO KISMET. 



To Kismet* 

Like Proteus in thy changes, in thy rich and 

endless ranges, 
Chameleon-like in hue! 
In thy weird and oft fantastic, seldom dull, nor 

yet bombastic. 
Plow of rhyme and reason true, 
Thou has set us all a-pond'ring, o'er thy laby- 

rinthal wand'ring. 
Whence thou art and who. 

Not a sombre, solemn raven, vainly searching 
for a haven 

When the storms begin to brew; 

Seeking vainly and despairing, in desperation 
then repairing 

To the musty, dusty shelter of a night re- 
porter's room. 

Sure the rustle and the bustle, the hustle and 
the tussle 

With manuscript and contents, would dull thy 
spirit soon. 

Whence then comes this inspiration? On 
whose silent meditation 

Fall these bright and fairy fancies, so remark- 
ably rare, 



LINES TO KISMET. 

Touched at times with the poetic, graced again 

with the aesthetic, 
And at all times energetic, with the stamp of 

"do or dare"? 

Is thy soul so nobly fashioned and thy heart so 

deep impassioned 
As to sympathize with every human woe? 
Wouldst thou share thy cheer with sorrow, and 

lend to him who'd borrow, 
And forget it on the morrow? I think, no! 

— Tancred. 



To Tancred* 

See the sloping hills and mountains! Hear the 

gurgle of the fountains! 
Dost thou scent the fragrant flowers? 
Is not Nature quite inspiring, in her changes 

quite untiring, 
As she leads thee to her bowers? 
Wouldst thou banish all the beauty that is 

helpful in thy duty, 
And changeless wish the hours? 

Didst thou ever see a raven, but a thieving bird 

and craven, 
And a coward at the coming of the storm? 
Was not Tancred in his might a "perfect, gentle 

knight," 

294 



TO TANCEED. 

Fighting bravely in the East to relieve a sacred 
land? 

Had he figured in the bustle of the night re- 
j)orter's hustle 

Victory would have rested with the old Cru- 
sader band. 

'Tis a weakened inspiration that depends on 
meditation, 

When broken hearts around us cause us sympa- 
thetic tears; 

He who meditates — delays, and neglects the 
thousand ways 

Of relieving all the throbbings, and the griev- 
ings and the fears. 



show the gleaming 
Of the love that tends to human beings bless. 
Wouldst thou lend thy cheer to sorrow, and 

expect it back to-morrow, 
And chasten him who'd borrow? I think, yes! 

— Kismet. 



295 



LINES TO KISMET. 



Firstly. 



I'm deeply interested, as I read the morning' 

news, 
In the Cuban situation and the leading coinag'e 

views, 
The dismemberment of China and Africa's sad 

fate, 
And the rocks that seem to threaten the good 

old ship of state. 

I want to know the weather and the latest 

Klondike bluff, 
And about those office seekers who never get 

enough; 
The doings of "sassiety" of high and low 

degree, 
And the chronic labor troubles mostly always 

trouble me. 

But the thing I look for firstly, I don't mind 
telling you, 

Is the modest poet's corner, and T have to read 
it through 

Just to satisfy myself that Kismet's shining- 
still, 

Then I know that everything is going well, or 
will. 

—Sumner F. Claflin. 
Manchester, February 1, 1898. 

296 



TO KISMET. 



To Kismet. 

[Suggested by reading his poems in the Daily "Union."] 

I am no gifted poet 

To mount Pegasus fleet, 
And cantering and fljdng 

Go scale Parnassus steep. 
A shaky piebald hack is all 

The steed I have to ride, 
So please excuse my verses — 

Don't say, "Why have you tried?" 

My sphere is somewhat circumscribed. 

My pen is weak and tame; 
I do not write for money, 

Nor yet for dearer fame. 
For 'tis not in my usual line 

To cut up such a caper; 
Give him the praise whose num'rous lays 

Light up our daily paper. 

For whether it is Cuba's war, 

Or Klondike's golden grain, 
Our "Kismet" takes his fountain pen 

And off he goes again. 
And should you ask "Oh, ^Vhy Is It?" 

Or say, there's "Something Wrong," 
Just listen to our fair "Rosie," 

Or "Sweet Sadie's" gentle song. 

297 



LINES TO KISMET. 

I like to hear you tell about 

The funny "Coon Gal's Walk," 
And in "My Garden" pleasant 

Pluck "The Tea Kose" from its stalk, 
Or meet our "Signor Lum Bago" 

Beside "The Silver Stream," 
Who'll tell a tale of "'Magog Lak'," 

As one who's in a dream. 

And now we see "'The Flower Girl," 

With "Some of the Good Things," 
With which our beloved poet 

So softly, sweetly sings. 
And take "The Sawdust Doll" to walk 

In peaceful "Amoskeag," 
Or follow for sweet "Charity" 

"Miss Velvet's" stately lead. 

The buzzing of "The Buzzing Bug" 

From gardens "O'er the Way," 
Will bring to mind "The Whistling Winds*' 

As leafy branches sway. 
The bumble of "The Bumblebee" 

Makes day dreams more than sunny. 
If you have seen "The Kobin Fiend," 

Calm down, "Calm down. My Honey." 

"The Minister's Wife" may early call, 
Her husband "Soon" will follow. 

And don't forget "Love's Changes," 
Nor the "Jasmine" in the hollow. 



298 



TO KISMET. 

The "Educated Blacksmith" 
May keep the forge a-humming, 

Still, never mind "The Saucy Flake," 
I'm sure "The Summer's Coming." 

"The Jovial Junkman's" call 

Brings visions of the spring; 
We gather wp our "Trinkets," 

Give "The Golden Bug" a fling. 
"The Candidates" are waiting 

Fat office to secure; 
"Life's Spring-time" will have vanished 

Ere they get it, I am sure. 

Still, "Kismet," we'll forgive you much 

Who wrote "The Eainbow Land," 
And many other pleasant things 

We do not understand. 
And if we never meet on earth, 

We hope that by-and-by. 
We shall gather all together 

In "The Land Beyond the Sky." 

—H. M. G. Corny. 
Warner, N. H., March 26, 1898. 



299 



LINES TO KISMET. 



To Kismet. 

[From an anonymous reader. Published March 3, 1898.] 

Oh, Kismet, maker of the songs, 

Also the ballads now in fashion. 
To read where breakfast sugar tongs 

Are nudging toast that has the hash on. 

Oh, Kismet, singer of the lays. 
Lacklike they circle from earth off, eh? 

We drink 'em in, the morning's praise, 
Imbibed with pleasure with our coffee. 

Oh, Kismet, drops of many quills. 
The palace high, or e'en the low hut, 

The love of harmony each fijls, 
Yea, as the filling joy, the doughnut. 

Oh, Kismet, bard of breakfast time, 
'Mongst the poets filling thine the luck seat, 

And just to close this a. m. rhyme. 
You take the cake, the cake that's buckwheat. 



300 



THE ENVIOUS HEART. 



The Envious Hearts 

Oh! That the heavenly muse 

Into thy mind her graces would infuse, 

And from thy poetic soul, behold 

Strange and marvelous wonders unfold 

Of mj'^steries yet untold. 

Like unto the bard divine of old. 

On the Rialto of our quiet little town, 

Thou mightst see a face and form 

That wouldst madly lure thee on 

To achieve a greatness most profound. 

Each maiden heart with envy sown. 

In rivalry into a monster grown, 

Would aspire to be the heroine unknown 

Of that {fin de siecle) poem. 

— Maiden. 

Manchesteb, February 16, 1898. 



301 



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